


Meaningful Exchange

by headbuttingbears



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, F/M, Kidnapping, Pining, Relationship of Convenience, Sexual Content, Shameless Consumerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12664011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/headbuttingbears
Summary: Middle-aged man of melancholic mood and little humor seeks opposite for equitable arrangement.| It's 1932: unemployment is at an all-time high, and Queenie Goldstein needs a job. Luckily for her, Percival Graves is looking to fill a very select position.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> References past Queenie/Jacob. Despite copious research, expect historical inaccuracies. Isn't fiction fun?
> 
> Title from Eve Nash's "nine of swords reversed."
> 
> I remain astounded that I finished this. Thanks to blithesea, sackoflemons, and bannering for: answering bizarre "which would you rather..." questions at odd hours; putting up with my endless whining; constant support and encouragement.
> 
> For Jenny. As if there were ever any doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > the most painful realization  
> of my adult life has been that  
> most people are not interested  
> in meaningful exchange  
> \- Eve Nash, "nine of swords reversed"

There wasn't any bread left. Or eggs. There wasn't much of anything, Queenie realized as she went through the cupboards, and the milk hadn't been delivered yet. Checking the fridge only reminded her of how high the prices at the stores and bakery had climbed. They needed flour.

But at least there was oatmeal, though only enough for one proper serving; she knew Tina would object if she gave it all to her. She left it in the pot instead of shifting it into bowls, added more brown sugar than she really should've given what they had, and an equally irresponsible pat of butter. Two spoons and a pot-warmer and… it didn't look so bad. Certainly not like they were at the bottom of the barrel and eyeing the wooden ribs.

"Like we were kids, huh?" she said when Tina stumbled into the kitchen at four in the morning and rubbed her eyes at the sight. Or maybe just because she was tired. "It's fun."

Tina's mouth twitched. A smile, almost, but when she glanced into the coffeepot and found only hot brown water it faded away. "Sure. Fun."

They sat close, taking turns spooning up oatmeal, eating slowly to make it last longer. In the silence, Queenie could practically hear her sister counting. _One for me, one for her, one for me, one for her-_

"So, are you still in Midtown today? Or are they moving you again?" she asked, when she couldn't bear the quiet anymore.

Tina shrugged then pulled up her thin navy cardigan when it slipped down her shoulder. "I think Midtown, but I suppose I'll find out when I get there. There's been some strange reports coming out of Harlem, psychics and exotic animals, so I might be spending the day uptown. Or spending the day getting uptown if the trains are bad."

Her spoon scraped against the pot as she chased a particularly sugary morsel. "Exotic animals? Like tigers?"

"Probably just dogs or some granny's overfed cat," Tina said, with a muffled yawn. "Beats busting shoplifters. That's just depressing."

"But they're not gonna get rid of you, right? They need patrolwomen."

"'Course. Who else would catch any criminals in this city?" she said with a wink and a nudge of her shoulder before she sobered again. "But really, you don't need to worry. The hours are the pits, but I'm still getting paid in real dollars, not grocery scrip like some."

"I'll see about getting some more hours," Queenie said, setting her spoon aside in favor of her cup of tea. More water than anything else, given how she'd reused the teabag at least three times already. Coffee was for Tina and her early starts. "You know how Abernathy is, I'm sure he'll help me out."

Tina nodded, considering the empty pot with a downcast look. "Well, we both know how persuasive you can be."

 

"You're fired, Queenie."

Her hand started to tremble so she set the cup she'd been drying down. Drop it and it came out of her pay, and she really couldn't afford that. "What?"

Abernathy shifted, rubbed his nose, and looked anywhere but at her. "Business isn't- you know how business has been lately."

"I do know, I'm here almost as much as you," she said, clenching her hands tight around her slim collection of tips to keep them from shaking. From hunger, not from fear or honest surprise — she'd seen how Abernathy kept coming up to her all through her shift, only to back off the moment she gave him an ounce of attention. And she'd seen the books — bad. Bad all over for everyone. Especially folks who'd played the stock market the way Abernathy had. "But I also know I'm the only reason folks come in at all," she said with what she hoped was a winning smile. "You fire me-"

"I can't afford to keep you on any longer," he interrupted. "I already kept you on too long. I did you a favor, you know."

"And I really appreciate it," she said, discreetly shifting her handful of tips from her apron to her skirt pocket before reaching out to touch his sleeve. "I do. Couldn't you just… reconsider?"

That was a mistake. He looked at her fingers, curled slightly into the worn cotton of his shirt, before cupping his hand over hers and looking up into her eyes. "If _you_ reconsidered _my_ offer, then I'd have no choice."

"Mr. Abernathy! We talked about this." She tried to pull away, as if she'd brushed her knuckles against the side of a whistling kettle, but his grip tightened.

"Would it really be so bad? If you were my wife, I could look after you," he said imploringly, without an ounce of the bravado he'd shown when he first proposed. "You wouldn't have to worry."

"You seriously expect me to believe that? You can't even look after me now." She tugged her hand out of his clammy grip and stepped back. He had her boxed in behind the counter, but there was still room to maneuver. And she was closest to the register.

He advanced a step when she backed up further. "Queenie, be reasonable-"

"I already gave you my answer, Mr. Abernathy," she said, fingers going to her apron strings to fumble them loose. "You say I'm fired? Fine. Keep this." Tossing the apron at him, she hurried to the register while he was distracted, the cheery _ding_ loud as the drawer popped open to reveal scant bills. Snatching a handful of singles, she hopped up onto the counter and slid quickly over it while Abernathy sputtered. For once she was glad there weren't any customers around to act as witnesses.

"Queenie, what the heck-"

"Today, yesterday, and four days last week," she said, rapidly counting bills as she walked backwards towards the door, one eye on the money and one on Abernathy struggling to get over the counter. He'd always been too short to manage it easily. "And you still owe me for the weekend and the week before-"

When he finally got over the counter, he landed heavily between two stools, still gripping her apron. "Don't you dare-"

"How about we say twenty and call it even, huh?" Money counted, she dropped what was left on a nearby table as she kept backing up. There was a jangle as the closed door made contact with her backside. "That sound good to you, Joe?"

"Queenie!"

She couldn't make out the rest of what he said as she hurried down the street, glancing back to see him standing in the doorway, her apron strings trailing against the ground.

 

She finally stopped looking over her shoulder when she reached Broadway. It was warm for the last day of February, which would've suited her fine except she'd left her coat back at the restaurant and the breeze whipping down Broadway made her shiver. Pulling her sweater tight around herself, she wandered aimlessly through the first green spot she found — the old cemetery of Trinity Church. Skirting the breadline out front, she made her way towards the back of the graveyard, where she sat down hard on an unoccupied bench.

Twenty plus her tips, which were another two bucks. Twenty-two then. And they had rent in a couple of weeks, the electric bill, water, groceries- So many bills to pay and now no job. A sob rattled her, and she covered her mouth, staring blindly across the street and struggling to get control of herself.

"At least I didn't lose my purse," she murmured, tilting her head back to keep the tears from falling and ruining what bit of makeup she could still afford to wear. After she'd caught Abernathy poking through her purse one afternoon she'd stopped bringing it to work.

Patting her pocket again, she heard the reassuring clink of coins against her apartment key and breathed a little easier.

"Up and at 'em, girly," she said in her best Tina impression. "No good sitting around."

Rising from the wall, she brushed the back of her skirt off and got her bearings. Sadly, she hadn't run so far or fast that she'd left the Financial District, that most hated part of the city. Behind her, the breadline had only grown, trailing off from a set of tables by the front gate. People were handing out bread rolls and ladling soup into bowls. Her stomach, long quiet out of resignation, rumbled hopefully at the smells the breeze carried over, but she turned away. Never mind that they were Episcopalian, she wouldn't take anything away from people who needed it more than her, not while she still had two pennies to rub together.

Besides, a walk — not a desperate jog — would do her good.

 _A job_ , she thought, making her way down Broadway, eyes peeled for a restaurant and any HELP WANTED signs that might be aimed at her. In the short-term, she needed to eat; in the long-term, she needed to eat.

There was an abandoned edition of the _New York American_ laying on the lunch counter of the restaurant she stopped in at, and after a fresh cup of coffee, a surprisingly thick bowl of tomato soup, and a slice of buttered bread, she turned her attention to it, waving for a second cup of coffee.

Unsurprisingly, the classifieds were well-thumbed. Positions were scarce but she still poured over them, looking for openings in secretarial or accounting work. She hadn't been a waitress for so long that she'd forgotten how to work a typewriter or balance a checkbook, but it didn't matter. No one was hiring, at least not for anything she could do.

How many other people had sat in that same spot and felt as dispirited as she did? Glancing around the restaurant, she noted the same tired expressions on the faces of the handful of other customers. At least business was better here than at Abernathy's. Probably down to the food.

"Are you hiring?" she asked hopefully when the waitress — Mona, her name tag said — came to refill her cup a third time. The caffeine wouldn't do her any good but she couldn't bring herself to say no.

The older woman shook her head as she poured. "Sorry, hun. Not today."

"Oh." She drooped for an instant as she added more sugar, then perked up. "Hey, Mona, do you know anyone around here who might be?"

Another head shake. "Not in these parts. You want anything else?"

Queenie bit her lip. Soup of the day, three cups of coffee — she was probably already at her ten-cent limit. "I'll let you know, okay?"

"Sure thing." Mona hesitated before patting her hand with one weathered one. "Don't worry, hun. Pretty thing like you, I'm sure you'll find something quick. There's always work for pretty girls."

Her smile felt brittle but it seemed to satisfy Mona, who moved a ways down to set the coffee pot back on a burner.

How many times had she heard variations on that same line? It had to be in the hundreds, she figured as she went back to the paper. Her manager and male colleagues at her old secretarial job had had endless things to say to her about her looks, and there was no denying that since the economy had gone boom she'd been relying on her natural charms more than her skills to get by. Tina was right, she could be persuasive when she wanted to be.

The want ads fed into personals almost without her noticing, and soon she was idly scanning through the lonely hearts. Single men of all sorts — sailors and soldiers, lawyers and gas station attendants — crowded the pages, looking for wives, girlfriends, a date to the races or company at the flickers. It was while she was squinting at an ad for _wealthy white widower seeks young single woman of pleasant face and demeanor_ that she remembered Abernathy's offer.

 _If you were my wife, I could look after you_.

When he'd suggested it, Queenie had blanched. Joe was alright in small servings, but marrying him would've meant eating that meal every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That might've been fine if there'd been a single jot of charm or romance about his offer. If he hadn't come on so strong. _Marry me and you'll be guaranteed a roof over your head. Marry me and I won't fire you._ No thanks.

Some girls from United Savings had taken jobs purely to hunt for men who'd offered much the same, laughing at her on their way out the door. _There's no romance in a depression, sweetie,_ they'd said, but she'd ignored them, convinced she was too good an employee to fire. That she'd have her happily ever after like in the pictures. She'd never thought the whole brokerage would go belly-up.

_Marry me and you won't starve._

It was a far more appealing offer when she was out of work and had less than thirty bucks to her name.

Scanning through the ads with renewed interest, she mentally filtered out the women, then the men who didn't appeal, whether due to profession or desires. There was no point trying to judge based on desperation — after all, she was desperate enough to be considering doing her husband-hunting through the classifieds. Glass houses and all that.

And no point wasting time looking for Prince Charming. The best she could hope for was someone decently-off and friendly enough to get along with. When too many ads fit those criteria, she added a third requirement: the candidate had to be old. The older the better — less chance of being childless or wanting more kids, and hopefully less chance of being interested in the getting of more kids. It felt cutthroat of her to think so, but old also meant more likely to die quickly. She wasn't looking for a romance for the ages; ideally she'd find someone sweet and rich who could take care of her and her sister, then pass gently into that good night and leave her plenty of time to meet someone she really wanted to marry.

"How you doin', hun?" Mona asked, but Queenie covered the mouth of her now-empty mug to stop her from refilling it a fourth time.

"Great. You got a pen I can borrow? And maybe some paper?" She had a half-dozen ads to reply to, and for the first time in ages it felt like her belly was full. That lent a shine to a plan that otherwise would've seemed not just seedy, but downright two-faced.

Mona passed her the pen that lived in her apron pocket and tore a page off her order book. "Anything else? You want the check?"

"Yeah, that would be great," she said, getting to work on copying down the names and P.O. boxes from the paper. "And a slice of that apple pie to go," she tacked on, nodding to the pie rack a few feet away.  "A big one." It was a mile-high, and Tina hadn't had pie in ages. A couple more cents wouldn't break her.

 

"Did you ask about your hours? What did he say?" Tina asked as she dug into her cold slice of pie.

"Uh, yeah. It came up." Queenie fidgeted with her fork. As usual, her sister had insisted on sharing, but she couldn't manage more than a small bite or two. Not because she was full; her stomach curdled like old milk at the thought of telling Tina what'd happened. "He…"

Head canted, Tina sat patiently, cutting a thick slice of apple in half with the side of her fork before eating it. Some of her color had come back at the sight of the pie, but her exhaustion was likely the only thing that kept her thinking too hard about Queenie's weak explanation for where the pie had come from. After a long day spent tracking down leads on fake fortune-tellers' fake magic birds, the thought of someone trading apple pie for coffee must've struck her as quaint.

"He…"

"It's okay if he said he couldn't give you any more hours," Tina said softly when she couldn't bring herself to say the words _he fired me_. "You still have a job, right? That's what counts."

"Yeah," she whispered, tapping the tines of the fork against the chipped plate. "I guess." Her hand trembled; the tines tapped again, louder, before she set it down. But it wasn't anxiety or hunger for once that made her nervous, but the guiltiest sort of relief. Lying to her sister had always been unthinkable, and now she hadn't needed to. Tina had made it so easy.

"Don't worry, we'll be fine." Tina reached out and tugged at Queenie's sleeve. "We're in a lot better shape than some folks, you know. And Hoover's out for sure this year. When the governor gets in, I'm sure things'll improve. They can't get any worse."

"You're right." She reached for her weak tea, then set it down to turn sharply to Tina. "I _am_ looking for something better, Teenie. Something where we could have pie every day."

"Oh, so you're going to start seeing Jacob on the sly?" Eyebrows waggling, Tina chomped on a bit of crust, then covered her mouth when Queenie's outrage set her to giggling. "I'm sorry, you made it too easy. I know you'd never. You're not the type to string a guy along like that."

The rate at which the flush left her cheeks made her feel cold. Shivering, she sipped her tea instead of replying.

 

Writing out a handful of letters to strange men didn't take her nearly as long as she'd expected. A night of tossing and turning, followed by Tina off to work at the crack of dawn, had left her with plenty of time to think about what she'd say. When she'd had the chance, she'd taken down a couple of notes for each ad, simple details such as the writer's profession or what qualities they were most interested in. When it came time to write, however, she gave the wrinkled paper no more than a glance or two before she set about trying to convince someone that she was marriage material.

Jacob had left her notes when they'd first met, simple things folded over and left beneath a muffin or a danish on her desk. They'd been sweet as his pastries, well-wishes or hopes he'd see her later, always signed with a curling _J_ towards the bottom. The letters had come later, after his bakery had prospered and he'd been able to hire a delivery boy to bring things to the office she worked at, but they'd stayed sweet.

What had she written back? She knew she had — the relationship had never been one-sided — but for the life of her she couldn't remember. Forgetting was for the best; digging out his letters from the shoebox under her bed wouldn't do her any good except as a study in what to avoid. He hadn't married her, after all. He'd married someone else, an old girlfriend with enough family money to keep his bakery afloat when the bank folded and took all his savings with it.

She read each letter back, satisfied enough with the tone — friendly, flirty, interested. Pretending to be interested in a man was a lot easier when he wasn't around to ogle her, she thought as she glued the envelopes shut.

Stamps, a fresh paper to see if there was anything new; the walk would do her some good. She had to go out, after all — she still had a job to do.

 

Before the month was over, Queenie was ducking out the back door of a restaurant on Delancey, hoping her date wouldn't spot her.

Responses had arrived quickly, and things had become far more complicated. Weeding out the creeps was simple enough, but what about those asking for a photo? Never mind that she couldn't afford to have any done, certainly not the sort that would guarantee a swift and enthusiastic response from a lonely man, it felt wrong to blindly send a picture of herself to a complete stranger. Sure, P.O. box numbers transformed into names like Benny and Tom and Michael, but it still felt like letting a man slip a hand up her skirt on the first date. He might see her again, but he might not, and either way she'd be left knowing she'd compromised herself for a pushy slimeball for nothing at all in return.

Some never wrote back, justifying her choice; some saw her reticence as coyness to talk her out of. And some never asked for a photo at all, but instead to meet in person. At restaurants or pubs, and one memorable date with an old man took her to the Central Park Zoo. Daniel was three times her age and forgetful, but he'd bought her popcorn twice and been content to squire her about to look at the animals.

"Now, mind your mother," he'd said, patting her hand as the bus drove up. "And this is for you and your sister. My treat, since you're such a good girl." He'd pressed a crumpled five into her hand with a wink and a nudge towards the open bus door.

"Thanks, honey," she said, and kissed his leathery cheek before stepping away to get on the bus as he chuckled and waved.

She never saw him again, but the fin was much appreciated. More than what other men had given her, which was mostly disappointment. Most of them were decent, or at least she didn't spend enough time to discover otherwise, but it felt like she was being punished with an endless stream of Abernathys. When they bought her dinner or a drink, it was either with the eagerness of a stray mutt looking for a home or a door-to-door salesman trying to make a deal. _What'll you give me if I give you this?_

Better to go back to the restaurant, swallow her pride, and beg Joe to reconsider her before she took on some desperate stranger. _The devil you know and all that_. At least then she might get her old coat back.

But sometimes she found it difficult not to give in, like on the days when scanning the dailies only gave her more information that she wanted about human misery and rising unemployment, both in the city and further afield. And Daniel's fin had been _very_ much appreciated. It kept Tina from asking any questions she couldn't easily deflect when she failed to find work, no matter that she spent her time looking for something steady when she wasn't writing.

An exercise she was seriously reconsidering.

"Ugh." She shuddered again, remembering how her latest date had draped himself all over her and whispered in her ear as though that wasn't their first meeting. His cheap cologne followed her down the alley and out to the street, where she joined the flow of evening foot traffic on the sidewalk, heading east. She wasn't in any rush; Tina was working such long hours lately that she barely saw her, and she didn't relish going back to the empty apartment.

One more time. It was Friday; she'd skip the weekend editions and try again on Monday, when new ads started to run. She'd learned to spot the flakes, oddballs, and the ones simply not worth her time. It wouldn't take her long to scribble out a few lines, then she'd get serious about job-hunting. That was likely why she hadn't managed to find anything — holding out hope her silly idea would turn straw into gold had been a distraction, one she couldn't afford to cling to it any longer.

Well, a little bit longer.

 

_Middle-aged man of melancholic mood and little humor seeks opposite for equitable arrangement._

Queenie frowned at the folded-over section of newspaper, twirling her pen back and forth between two knuckles. Up until now, she'd been ignoring the one-liners for a reason. Paying by the word meant that many personal ads were concise; she wasn't about to marry someone who couldn't afford to splash out for an inch of newsprint in an effort to attract a wife.

At least there weren't any of the obvious red flags she'd learned to spot. He wasn't claiming to be a farmer of generous income — who ever heard of such a thing nowadays? And advertising in a New York paper to boot? — nor was he looking for _a well-formed woman of breeding_ , which she'd discovered the hard way meant stacked, rich, and certainly not named Goldstein.

But the last two words, _equitable arrangement_ , gave her pause. The majority of ads ended with something far more definite: _object, matrimony_. Rarely had she responded to anything less. What was the point? She didn't have the time to mess around with triflers, and focusing on wife-seekers had still resulted in a lot of wasted effort.

"What does that even mean?" she asked out loud. If he were looking to make an acquaintance, she could assume he was looking for a girlfriend at the very least, maybe a mistress. What he said… it sounded like business talk. Not love or even like, but a partnership.

Frowning, she considered what little else there was. He wanted to meet his opposite? Well, that was her to a T, wasn't it? Though with all those Ms in a row in the first bit, she wondered how humorless he really was.

"Man of melancholic mood," she read aloud as a smile slowly spread across her face.

Spinning her pen around and around, Queenie looked to the slim stack of envelopes she'd already filled and addressed sitting next to her mostly-empty bottle of perfume. Five, not many at all, and she did prefer even numbers…

"Eh, what the hell." Steadied her pen and started writing.

 

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_Would you be interested in dinner at seven o'clock on Thursday 24_ _th_ _at La Citrouille at 43_ _rd_ _and Eighth? No need to reply by letter, your presence (or lack thereof) will be answer enough._

_\- G_

"What's wrong?" Tina leaned over to attempt a peek as she dried the few dishes they had and stacked them carefully in the cupboard. It creaked ominously, but it'd done that since the day they'd moved in from Harlem and it hadn't fallen yet. "Your face is going to get stuck like that."

"Nothing." Queenie quickly refolded the letter — could she really call it that? It was two sentences long — and crossed her arms, thinking hard. "Just another rejection, that's all." La Citrouille? She'd never heard of the place, but then she wasn't often in Midtown. "I'm gonna go… have a little alone time." Conscious of Tina watching her as she went to their shared bedroom, she made an effort to look more downcast than annoyed.

Not that it was hard to do in such sad digs. Their old apartment had been spacious in comparison to where they lived now in the Lower East Side. But beggars — and the bank collapse had nearly left them so — couldn't be choosers. It wasn't the street, it wasn't a Hooverville, and their door had locks. Things could be worse.

The mattress reminded her it was more spring than stuffing when she sat on it and pulled the note out to glower at it some more. Most men, once they were out of the public eye of the newspaper classifieds, opened up. They tried to impress, tried to sell themselves the way land agents had sold tracts of dirt in Oklahoma — by bamboozling with a lot of fancy words. But this guy didn't even tell her his name. G for George? Gunther? Or was it a last name? Grant or Garvey or- No, surely not Goldstein as well, no matter how the thought tickled. She'd never made any attempt to hide her heritage — she wasn't about to marry a man who wouldn't accept her as she was — and consequently men who had hidden theirs in the paper rushed to unmask as a point in their favor. _I'm like you, look how much we already have in common!_

G. That was nothing.

With a deep sigh, she idly considered her half of the rack of clothes that stood off to one side of the room. So far she'd gotten away with wearing her nicer day dresses to dates — why bother with more when the setting was a family-owned restaurant in the neighborhood or a speakeasy — which was good because she only had one dress left that wouldn't leave her ashamed to be seen somewhere fancy. But should she even bother? There'd been no hint at all to what sort of place it was besides what the name gave away, nor what sort of man the mysterious Mr. G was.

 _At least the paper's nice._ She rubbed the corner between her fingers; heavier than what she'd sent him and more cream than white. The black ink he'd used made the angles of his precise writing look all the sharper in contrast, and if it wasn't as uniform as her secretarial cursive, it was just as legible despite its obvious lack of Palmer Method influence. The spacing, too, pointed to regular practice — unguided by lines or a ruler, most people's writing tended to wander either up or down. His did not. It sat there stark and perfectly spaced like iron lamp posts on an avenue. That confidence, combined with a lack of hesitation marks or crossed-out words, suggested he was accustomed to thinking a great deal about what he wrote before he wrote it.

It appeared she did have some hints about what sort of man Mr. G was after all. Reaching out, she flicked the fringed hem of the pink dress she hadn't had cause to wear in years. Not much dust on it at all. Hopefully she wouldn't be too out of fashion.

 

She should've worn one of her day dresses.

Trailing trembling fingertips up and down the sides of her water glass, Queenie surveyed the crowd around her for the hundredth time and wondered if she ought to just give up for once and go home.

"Would you like to see a menu, miss?" The waiter smiled apologetically when she startled at his sudden tableside appearance. "Apologies."

"N-no, not yet," she said, sipping from her glass and struggling to look hopeful. "I wouldn't want to start without him."

"Of course." The knowing smile softened as he turned away to see to another table.

As soon as he was gone, she drooped and began to wring her hands. Never in her life had she been stood up, and here she was. Sitting alone at a table in the middle of a fancy French joint, probably the topic of every conversation around her. _That poor girl, maybe her date caught sight of her first and split._

She glanced up through her eyelashes in time to catch a woman at the next table over staring as she said something in an undertone to her dining companion; they looked away simultaneously.

If only the maître d' had just blinked when she'd first appeared and said, "Don't you have a proper name for the reservation? We don't deal in initials alone." She could've taken that as a sign and been on her merry way, disaster averted. But he hadn't, merely nodded and signalled for a waiter to lead her to an empty table.

Being stood up — and in so public a setting — would have been enough humiliation, but on top of everything she felt like a big pink daisy mistakenly included in a bouquet of lilies. The men were all in fine suits, the women in expensive frocks like what she saw on the covers of magazines, sporting pretty earrings and simple strands of pearls, while she sat in a two-year-old dress, her wool coat hanging up next to furs.

Her cheeks burned as her eyes prickled; she bit her lip. She wasn't about to cry and make everything worse. What would Tina do? _Get mad_ , she thought. Her sister could work up a righteous huff like few others she knew, but that wasn't her style.

"'Scuse me," she said, catching a passing waiter's attention. "Do you got the time?"

"It's..." He glanced at his wristwatch, neatly balancing a platter of dirty dishes in one hand. "7:32," he barely managed before hurrying off without a backward look.

Thirty-two minutes. Blinking back threatening tears, she drained her glass. She wouldn't sneak out the back door this time; she'd go the way she came. Still, she couldn't bring herself to look at anyone as she stood up before her waiter could hurry over to get her chair for her.

"Miss, wait-"

"I'm done waiting, thanks," she said, face hot. "Tasty as your water is, I don't want to take up one of your spots any longer. You can tell Mister- you can tell my-" she twisted her fingers, faltering at what to call him as the waiter and everyone around them stared at her.

"Tell him what?" said a male voice from behind her. Surely a rubbernecking diner, but the waiter's widening eyes suggested he was wondering much the same.

"I don't care what you tell him," she said finally to the waiter, swiping a hand across her damp cheek. "Tell him I left." _So much for not making more of a spectacle of myself_. She turned on her heel to leave as quick as she could.

And collided so hard with the man standing behind her that it knocked the wind out of her. Gasps went up about them, a clatter of silver and dishware as she staggered and clipped a table. Would've lost her balance completely if not for the hands that caught her arms; they slid up from her forearms to cup her elbows, steadying her.

"Are you alright?" the man asked in an undertone, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

 _Wowza, those are some brows_. She sucked in a heady lungful of his cologne before she got her feet under her. "Sorry I almost ran you over, honey."

Swallowing, he looked away as he released her and stepped back, hands slipping into his pockets. "Deservedly, I assure you, Miss Goldstein." There was the faintest touch of pink to his pale face. "I'm Graves."

Her hand trembled with mortification as she raised it to slap him across the face, but she checked the motion. Yes, he'd humiliated her, but finishing what he'd started would do her no favors. Besides, she'd never hit anyone in her life; she wasn't about to change that just because he'd been an ass.

He'd turned slightly at her initial movement, eyes flicking between her hand to her face. Impossible to think he didn't know what she'd intended, but he'd made no move to stop her or avoid it. His gaze was direct, but not childishly daring the way some men became when she threatened to go her own way. Nor was it smug when she finally dropped her hand.

She took a slow deep breath as she crossed her arms, but before she could manage to wrangle her lingering anger into some cutting remark, he stepped closer.

"Besides a proper apology, I also owe you dinner, miss," he said, then added in a murmur, "Perhaps not here."

Tempting though it was to reject him outright and leave alone, again she hesitated. Not just because she'd come all that way — though she had, and the prospect of going home entirely empty-handed was galling — and not just because her stomach was glued to her spine — any moment it would rumble and embarrass her further.

No, it was because he hadn't called her _doll_ or _baby_ , hadn't tried to handle her either verbally or physically. Her last date had done both; the memory of that awful man's scruffy face against her neck was crystal clear. _Aw, play nice, doll._ Graves, no matter that his manners suffered for a marked lack of punctuality, never let his gaze wander from her face to the rest of her body, which so recently had made such violent contact with his own.

"Somewhere with a real bar," she said, watching for some flash of triumph to cross his face.

Instead he remained serious as before, tipping his head in agreement and holding out his hand, and if he wasn't annoyed when she snubbed his hand to pass by him and lead the way out of the dining room, neither was he amused.

 

"I apologize for being late."

Queenie had been watching the city pass by as they rode silently in the taxi together. The new restaurant Graves had named was further uptown; she'd felt another twist of hesitation, but the address was still in Midtown, and he'd kept his distance in the back of the car. No funny stuff. So far.

He was gazing somberly at her when she met his eye. "I should have called or sent a message, but I was…" his eyes slid briefly away before resettling on hers. "Detained."

"Does that happen a lot? You getting 'detained?'" She twitched her coat so it lay flatter over her knee, tone light as she said, "If we was going to be seeing each other, I'd want to know what to expect."

"If." There were paragraphs of fine print under the single word when he said it.

"Yeah, if." Her eyebrows rose as she shrugged. "You haven't made such a great first impression, you know. But don't worry-" she reached out to pat his gloved hand where it lay motionless on his knee "-there's still plenty of time to fix that."

His thumb twitched before she withdrew her hand. "How reassuring," he muttered, before shifting minutely on the bench. "To answer your question, not typically. I am usually good at managing my schedule, but I had a last-minute meeting that ran far longer than it should have. Things have been… hectic." The street lights played over his face as he looked grimly out the window for a moment before turning back to her. "I promise to notify the restaurant in the future if I'm going to be late; it's up to you if you want to wait or leave, but your meal will be paid for should you opt to stay."

"Oh." A pause as she digested every nugget of information in that mini-speech. A full plate at work, an offer to cover whatever tab she ran up without him… "That's real generous of you," she said, eyes narrowing. The lighting in the cab was poor, but she didn't need it to get a sense of how fine his clothes were. A cashmere coat, a fedora that looked new, gloves that felt butter-soft against her fingertips. Heck, his cologne alone, for all that it wasn't overpowering, screamed money. Nothing so delicious-smelling could be cheap.

"Would that be part of the arrangement you mentioned in the paper?" Unable to keep the note of hopefulness out of her voice, she continued, "Dinner every night or-"

"No." He shook his head once as the car came to a stop, and as he pulled out his wallet from an interior coat pocket her door was hauled open with a creak by a man in a tidy white shirt and black apron. "Not every night."

As he paid, Queenie took in their new surroundings after the aproned man helped her out of the car. A quieter street than the one they'd left, the restaurant before them — proclaimed _Roarke's_ by the sign hanging overhead — was full, judging by the view through the ground-floor windows.

"I hope you got a reservation," she joked as Graves rounded the car to join her. "Looks pretty busy in there."

"I don't." Rather than offer his arm to her, he led the way through the door held open by the same busboy from before, who traded a wide-eyed look with her as she passed by.

"Mr. Graves, we did not expect to see you." A man in a suit, shorter than Graves and a decade or so older, approached with clasped hands. "Your usual table is occupied," he said with a hint of an Irish accent, glancing between Graves and Queenie with a nervousness she recognized. Someone was going to get a severe talking-to later on. "But if you are willing to wait five minutes, I'm sure alternate accommodations can be made for them-"

"Don't bother, Albert," Graves said, hardly looking at him, attention turning instead to Queenie. After a second's consideration that reminded her of how old exactly her coat was, he nodded. "We'll eat upstairs."

"Up- upstairs?"

"Is it occupied as well?" The bland way Graves said it might've hinted at barely-checked irritation, but for the slow look he gave her from the corner of his eye.

 _Humorless_. Maybe, maybe not.

"No, no, only you don't typically..." Albert snapped his fingers blindly behind him, waving a hand to a pair of young servers who hurried over from the bar. "Mr. Graves and his companion will be dining upstairs tonight."

What ensued was the kind of bustle Queenie had only ever seen in the office when her boss's boss had come to look over the books. Their coats and hats were taken, refreshments and chairs offered, and they hadn't even left the front room. At least it was a nice room — the floor was dark wood, the wallpaper green brocade, the brass lighting fixtures electric and new.

"You were so mean to him," she whispered to Graves as they stood out of the way of the doors so other patrons could pass by. "He was gonna move those people just for you, you know."

"I'm aware."

She drained what was left of her excellent g&t before continuing, "Aware you were mean or aware-"

"Yes." Leaning back against the wall, his jacket sleeve brushed her arm as he slid his hand into his trouser pocket. "You're very concerned with manners, aren't you?"

Catching the eye of the waiter hovering nearby, she pointed to her empty tumbler.

Before she could get a refill, Albert returned, bearing two menus, and beckoned to them. "Follow me, please."

Graves waved her on; she tagged after Albert into the main room, conscious of her dress. If it had been unfashionable before, it was downright gaudy here; the women were all in darker colors, stormy blues and rich greens, even some purples and ruby reds, while the men were in typical shades of gray.

Worrying her lip, a backwards glance told her that Graves followed close behind, frowning at her expression. Before she turned back to follow Albert to the right, towards a unobtrusive set of stairs, she saw him frown at some of the more obvious diners who watched them go by.

Private dining had always meant eating alone in her apartment, something she'd never enjoyed. But then she never ate in such a lovely room. Beautiful paintings of landscapes and hunts hung on the long dark green walls;  small chandeliers hung from the ceiling to cast a warm glow over the space; the limestone hearth to one side crackled with a low fire; the windows before them let in enough street light to prevent it from seeming a den. Away from other, smarter-dressed diners, and entirely taken with the decor, she forgot her self-consciousness entirely.

One of the twins from earlier waited by her chair, pushing it in when she sat down and smiling mutely at her thanks. Her very enthusiastic thanks — a fresh g&t was waiting.

"For you," Albert said, passing her a menu. "Sam and Red will look after you, but if there is anything else, don't hesitate to ask." There was a warm hospitality in his face when he looked at her that suggested the food alone was not what packed the downstairs dining room.

With thanks far less enthusiastic than hers, Graves turned his attention to the menu.

It had been a long time since she'd set foot in an expensive restaurant — even the one Jacob had taken her to once or twice hadn't been so fancy as this — and it was a passing shock to see a range of items and not a single price.

Graves had barely glanced at his menu before Albert bustled over with a couple of bottles of wine and engaged him in a low conversation, which provided her the opportunity to examine him covertly. It had been dark in the cab, and she'd been too annoyed to give him proper consideration. Pretending to read the selection of appetizers, she peered over the edge of her menu, feeling like a spy.

Middle-aged, his ad had said; a tricky phrase men reached for to lend themselves distinction or obscure how far past their prime they really were. Yet for all that the buzzed portion of his undercut was silver, and his black hair was threaded here and there with it, Graves did not look too old. Younger than she'd expected, certainly, but the frown lines he carried hadn't been carved yesterday.

No older than fifty, she decided. Perhaps forty-five; the crash had aged everyone, it was too hard to be precise. She would agree with his self-description in that regard. As for melancholy, she could admit now, after the gin had cooled her temper, that there was a sad cant to his brown eyes and downturned mouth, though whether that was due to the amount of luggage he was carrying under those same eyes or displeasure with others was hard to say.

"The lamb is good," Graves said without turning away from Albert. "If you're wondering what to order."

Caught. She lowered her menu enough to stare at him directly. "You eat here a lot?"

"You know I do," was his prompt reply, waving Albert off entirely. "Don't waste our collective time with questions you already know the answers to, Miss Goldstein."

At least Albert left one of the bottles of wine behind.

Pursing her lips, she dropped her gaze to the menu. After doing most of the cooking in her family for the majority of her life, besides working at Abernathy's, it wasn't too hard for her to sort the pricy food from the cheap. Typically she'd been ordering on the cheaper side when on dates, if only to spare the guy of the night's pocketbook — cheap food could be just as filling as expensive — but the likelihood of her setting foot in this joint again was growing slimmer every time she opened her mouth.

"I'll have the Roarke steak," she told the waiter, Sam, when he came to take her order. Ribeye was a guaranteed big spender item in a chophouse, and Graves didn't bat an eye at her order. He also spoke very little once their order began to trickle in, born by either Sam or his twin. Lobster salad, then split pea soup and fresh bread, and whenever she made some comment about the food or their surroundings — "I don't remember the last time I had lobster" or "that painting is swell"  — he merely looked at her before alternately humming in agreement or remaining silent.

It would have been easy to give up — God knew he had tested her multiple times already — but in a strange way it made her more determined. To talk to him — she knew he could be coaxed to conversation, it had happened already — and to enjoy herself. Sure, her dress was like something Cinderella's fairy godmother hadn't gotten near in time, and she was broke, and her date was rather curt, but the food was good. That was what mattered.

And if he didn't enjoy anything, at least he wasn't fussy or annoying about it. He ate steadily, quietly, and handled every new piece of cutlery with the ease of long practice. And he had an almost delicate turn of wrist; she noticed when his cufflink caught the light and drew her eye. A light gray, almost mother-of-pearl.

 _No one would ever accuse him of being a chatterbox, but at least he's alright to look at_.

"How is everything?" Albert had returned when their plates were cleared away, and refilled the empty wineglass that had replaced her tumbler. Real wine, she'd discovered, was a lot better tasting than the grape juice people had been passing off in her neighborhood.

"It's just tops, ain't it?" Not waiting for Graves to issue some dire edict like _satisfactory_ , Queenie carried on to say, "That salad was delish! And the soup, my mother never made a pea soup so good. And that steak-" conscious that she was taking things a bit far, she leaned forward to rest her hand on Albert's forearm, stopping him as he set the refreshed glass down before Graves. "I know it's a lot to ask, but could you find it in your heart to tell me how you get it so tender?"

All nervousness left the man as he barked a laugh. "Sadly, I cannot, miss. Alas, I'm but a humble proprietor, and have no skill in the kitchen at all." When she sat back with an overdramatic moue of disappointment, he leaned forward to stage-whisper to her, "All I know is that the chef uses two pieces of ribeye, not just one. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine."

Two? Eating one had long been beyond her meager budget, and now she'd eaten- Guilt flooded her when she thought of Tina. It had to be past nine; was her sister home, wondering where she was and poking through their bare kitchen cupboards for something to eat after a long day on her feet?

"If there's nothing else…"

"No, thank you," Graves said in his typical dismissive way, watching her carefully.

She managed a smile for Albert as he left, almost regretting she hadn't let the wine go to her head. If she'd been drunk she could've brought herself to ask for another helping of something to take home to Tina, but unfortunately her head was still thoroughly screwed on. Despite her earlier demand of a real bar, she'd never been one to toss it back while out alone with a strange man in strange surroundings.

They took enough liberties when she was sober.

"You were correct," he said, startling her out of her moody wool-gathering by sitting up straight, clasped hands resting atop the spotless white tablecloth. "I eat here most nights at seven. You would join me during the week, Monday through Friday, and in exchange I would pay for your meals and compensate you for your time. If, as I said, my schedule prohibits me joining you, you may stay or go of your own accord. Naturally, I would not pay you if I'm absent."

"Oh, naturally." A mouthful of wine washed away most of the questions that leapt to mind. Not all. "That's the arrangement, huh? You don't say three words to me the whole time, but-"

"Are you trying to talk yourself out of a job, Miss Goldstein?"

She laughed. "You didn't post a 'help wanted' ad, Mr. Graves, you went looking in the lonely hearts section." With the other shoe firmly dropped, she could relax entirely; did so, cradling her half-full glass of wine in one hand. "And you ain't looking for a wife or a girlfriend? Or a-"

"No," he said, bristling for a moment before he looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face and sighing. "I would not be paying for the pleasure of your company, just for-"

"The pleasure of my company," she repeated, innocent when he cut her a sharp look from the corner of his eye. "Ain't you? You want me to have dinner with you. Isn't that-"

"Fine," he snapped with an exasperated roll of his eyes. "Yes. But nothing… more."

More than once men had made her similar promises, and she could count on one hand the number that had really kept their hands to themselves. Swirling her wine slowly around in her glass, she considered Graves and his offer. It sounded easy enough, but her recent luck had been beyond dismal. There was no way she could rely on it to last-

"Fifty dollars a night."

"What?" Her grip tightened reflexively on the glass when he repeated himself. Fifty dollars a night, five nights a week… At United Savings she'd been lucky to make that over two weeks. Rather than ask if he was pulling her leg, she took a large gulp of wine.

He dug a hand into his jacket pocket, extracted an envelope, and held it out to her. "For tonight," he said as she set down her glass and took it.

Hoping he hadn't noticed her hand shaking, she fumbled the flap open. It was a narrow brown envelope, the sort bank tellers used, and inside were ten five dollar bills. At least they were used; if they'd been crisp she'd've had reason to suspect him of printing them up at home, and she desperately needed not to.

"Would we be eating alone every time?" she asked, tucking the envelope safely away in her purse. God help any thief who came after her tonight. "I'm just asking 'cause it's pretty romantic, just you and me, and you did say you weren't looking for a girlfriend." The teasing note that crept into her voice couldn't be helped, not when she was so desperate to lighten the atmosphere that suddenly felt so oppressive. Shouldn't she have felt better now that she was flush?

For the first time that she'd noticed, Graves dropped his gaze from her face to survey what he could see of the rest of her. It was done with an indifference so complete it shocked her; he'd shown more interest in his food, and he'd barely seemed to like it.

Sure, she hadn't been eating three squares a day for a couple of years, and her closet was a bit out of date when it came to eveningwear, but she knew she wasn't a dog.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched as he looked her in the eye. "Depends," he said. _Depends on what you wear_ , she heard loud and clear.

The envelope of cash in her bag said that wouldn't be a problem.

 

There were a pair of loud creaks as the front door opened and closed.

"I'm in here," Queenie called from where she sat on her bed, the shoebox full of letters and photos open on her lap. Most of the money had gone under the pile of memories; the rest she'd kept in her bag. She had errands to run.

"You look fancy," Tina said as she dragged herself into their shared bedroom and dropped onto the bed next to her. "What's up? Hot date?"

"Yeah." Queenie shuffled the rest of the letters back into the box and slid the lid on, reaching for the ready lie she'd thought up as she shoved the box back under her bed. "Guy who delivers to the restaurant. I think it went okay." Better than okay, but she knew how Tina would react if she told her what sort of mischief she'd gotten into now. How she should know better than to trust strange men who made her extravagant promises; give them an inch, yadda yadda yadda. As if she didn't know all that at least as well as Tina did, if not better. Tina had never even tried to lean on a man for anything. She was too smart for that.

"That's nice. I'm glad something's working out for one of us." Lying back on the bed, she let out an enormous sigh. "They're talking about transferring me back to Harlem. Not for long, just to cover Bernadette's beat while her leg heals." Her chuckle was rough with bitterness. "This is what I get for joking about missing it up there."

"Are they- Does this mean your hours are going to be cut?" Queenie laid down next to her, curled on her side.

Tina shook her head tiredly. "I don't know. Hopefully not. I might be a lot later getting home; you know how that commute is."

"Oh." On one hand, she was upset for her sister, but on the other hand she wouldn't have to explain her own late nights. But there would be other things — from the corner of her eye, she could make out her rack of old clothes. If Graves was as good as his word, she'd be replacing a lot of it soon.

As though catching the trailing end of her thoughts, Tina frowned. "I thought you said your date went alright. What were you up to sulking in here? Didn't he like your new dress?"

"This dress is ancient, Teenie," she said with a scrunch of her nose. So much for Tina noticing any sudden changes to her wardrobe. "And I wasn't sulking. I was just… I don't know, reminiscing."

"Too much of that is bad for you," Tina said with a snort, then shifted closer so her forehead brushed Queenie's, eyes sliding shut. "Things'll get better."

How many times had her sister said that? How many times had she said it herself? Or heard it from other people? Queenie had long since lost count. But there was money in her box, the promise of more on the way so long as she was amusing or pretty enough to keep Graves interested.

 _And if he presses his luck?_ The worried voice in her head had always sounded more like her sister than she wanted. _What'll you do then?_

"There's no point in worrying about things we can't control," Queenie whispered to Tina's murmured agreement.

 

The following night found her arriving at Roarke's ten minutes early, where, to her great surprise, she came upon Graves smoking outside.

"If you're out here… I ain't late, am I?"

He took a drag off his cigarette, the tip glowing orange. "You know you're not. No need for dramatics."

Letting the strap of her new bag slide down her arm, she took it in hand to knock against her leg as she gave Graves a dry look. "I ain't being dramatic, I'm teasing. Ain't you never been teased before?"

"Most people know better," he said, taking a final puff of his cigarette before flicking it out into the dark street and waving her towards the door.

"I ain't most people," she said with a smile for the boy who got the door for her. She recognized him from the previous night, as she did the man who took her coat and hat. Brushing her skirt straight, she faced Graves, hoping for some sign of approval. An afternoon's work had seen her turn out a couple of new dresses from the latest patterns and fabrics she'd picked up that morning; paired with some fresh silk stockings and shoes, she felt like a whole new gal. She still needed a decent spring coat and hat, and a larger selection of underthings wouldn't go amiss — she might treat herself with a trip to Bloomingdale's for those. But really, how would he ever know?

In the meantime, she thought she'd done great — her green crepe dress was chic, and certainly not as over-bright and out-of-date as what she'd worn before. The print was simple, but the fabric more expensive than what she'd been buying before. A big improvement.

Or so she thought.

Once again, Graves barely glanced at her before he turned to the ever-antsy Mr. Albert, who'd been whispering to Sam, the waiter. "Upstairs."

"What?" Queenie fidgeted with the strap of her bag, resisting the urge to fuss with her hair. "I just thought-"

"Have you changed your mind?" Unlike the other two men, Graves hadn't turned to boggle at her. Instead, he stood at an angle, presenting an exterior as tall and stony as a granite cliff face, and just as welcoming.

"No," she said, fighting back a sigh. In new threads, the dining room took on an inviting aspect rather than a mortifying one. But there wasn't any money to be found there if she ate alone. "No, upstairs is fine. It's a fab room." When she smiled, Albert and Sam smiled back, the former with some relief.

Back through the building, up the stairs, where this time she matched the surroundings. When she pointed it out to Graves, he merely nodded, preoccupied with the two bottles of wine Albert offered him.

He continued to feign indifference no matter what she talked about. The colors of her other planned dresses and how they might look in the yellow light; the various courses they ordered — the soup, their salads, how tender the steak was, or well-brewed the coffee. The previous night he'd at least issued the rare grunt of agreement; now he wouldn't even do that. He ate in silence and he barely looked at her.

Queenie could count on one hand the number of times a man had so obviously ignored her. Far more common that they'd stare — at her mouth, or her chest if they thought she was particularly dense — and nod along, and absorb not a single thing she said no matter how important it was. But to be paid no attention at all…

If she'd been anyone else she would've taken the hint and shut up.

 _I ain't most people._ And he'd said he'd wanted his opposite.

Still, it was a surprise when he turned to her curbside and said, "I'll see you on Monday."

"You're not tired of my yammering on?" Bit her lip the moment she asked — why push her luck? — but he didn't answer. Not directly, anyway.

While a cab pulled up before them, he pulled out his wallet. "Monday, Miss Goldstein," he said, and passed her a fin. "For your taxi." As if he hadn't given her another envelope of cash already.

 

Monday was more of the same. And Tuesday. Wednesday was the exception, and only because when she'd arrived Albert had informed her Graves had called ahead and was unable to join her. That night she ate downstairs at the bar, people-watching and wondering what sort of business cropped up at seven o'clock at night. The food was still excellent, though she couldn't bring herself to have more than an entree and dessert. It felt wrong ordering more than that when it was on someone else's tab and that someone else wasn't there.

The next day he reappeared it was back to business as usual: she talked and he, besides apologizing for his absence, ordering, and bidding her goodnight, said less than he had on their first date. If it could even be called a date.

No matter that she'd taken up reading the dailies front to back in self-defense, shifting her monologues from fashion and decorating to the new Garbo film, the latest scandals in Albany and Washington, the drought in the Great Plains, and the FBI's continuing hunt for the newest gang of bank robbers; but for a disgusted snort during that last, he still refused to make conversation with her.

He said more to Albert during their strange song and dance with the wine, and, after weeks of neglect, Queenie had had enough. When Albert arrived promptly after Graves finished ordering, bearing small wine glasses on a tray and bottles of wine — three this time, all the better — she had a plan.

Wrapping up her order for Sam a good deal quicker than usual, she handed her menu over and watched with avid interest as Albert draped a pristine white cloth over his arm and presented the first bottle for Graves's inspection. "1842 Château Genevrieres." At his nod, he opened the bottle and, to Queenie's bafflement, passed the cork to Graves as he poured a stoplight-red wine into one of the glasses.

Graves set aside the cork for the glass; sniffed it, brow furrowing, then sipped it before swiftly setting it aside for a drink of water. "No. Too murky."

 _Murky?_ It looked fine to her. Redder than anything, but Albert hadn't even needed to strain it when he poured.

Unfazed, Albert handed the bottle and cork off to Sam before repeating the ritual with the second bottle. "Nuits-Saint-Georges, 1871." When Graves did not immediately reject the far darker sample, Albert began to describe the wine in such flowery language as Queenie had never heard before. Phrases like _lingering sweetness_ , _hints of blackberry_ , _notes of roast coffee and vanilla_.

"How can a wine taste like any of that?" she chirped up. "Ain't it just… fermented grape juice?"

Albert turned with a gracious smile. "Technically, but a lot can happen during fermentation. Wines are like cakes, miss — no two are the same. They all include flour, but my wife might add cinnamon while you add chocolate."

"Sure, that makes sense," she said, so sunnily he didn't pick up on the skepticism that tinted her words. She'd drunk her share of wine and never picked up on anything more complicated about the flavors than red, very red, and vinegar.

Then Graves held the half-full glass out to her. At her initial hesitation, his eyebrows twitched up. "Don't just toss it back."

The flat look she gave him faded quickly; their fingers brushed as she took the glass from him, swirling the wine around as he had. "I don't know about vanilla, but it smells real nice," she said to Albert before she took a dainty sip, thinking hard about how he'd described it. "It tastes nice too. Fruity, maybe berry but…" Mindful of what Graves said, she took a large drink and attempted to savor her wine for once. "Sort of chocolate? Not roasted anything." With faint regret, she passed the empty glass back to Graves, and gave Albert an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about wine besides I have a lot of fun drinking it."

"At least you admit it," Graves said, and the whole rigamarole was repeated a third time as she sipped some water. Crimson, not as inky as the one before — he didn't bother to taste it first, just swiftly passed it over, watchful as she repeated her actions from before. Swirl, sniff, sip.

"It's very…" She sniffed again, a smile tugging at her lips before she took a larger sip. There was something nostalgic about its tartness. "I don't know, it reminds me of something. It lingers," she said, passing it to Graves.

To her surprise, he drank it down at once; there was a smudge of her lipstick on the rim as he held the glass between two long fingers, licking his lip as he thought.

"Don't it remind you of something?" she pressed, and when he looked up at her it was to roll his eyes.

"Communion wine," he said, nose scrunched. "The second bottle, Albert, which is the one you wanted me to buy in the first place. Why you bother with this…"

"It makes me feel like less of a scoundrel, sir." Grinning, Albert waited for Sam to set out their wine glasses before he poured, tipping his head at them before departing with the rejected bottles and dirty glasses.

"Toast?" The stem was thin, temptingly breakable in her hand as Queenie raised her glass. "Bad luck not to, you know."

Unimpressed, Graves nonetheless raised his own glass in a smooth motion, pausing before it could touch hers. "To what?"

"To…" _your health_ was the usual, and inoffensive, and so boring. _To you finally talking to me again_ was tempting, but she didn't want to embarrass or scare him off.

The table was bare of dishes, but there was delicious food on its way; the room was far too big for just two diners and two silent waiters, but it was warm; Graves was taciturn, but his three-piece suit was immaculate and her menu hadn't any prices.

"To your bank," she said with a smile and a tilt of her head. He'd called himself humorless, but given the familiarity with which he handled Albert, the bemused way he reacted to her teasing, she wondered if that wasn't something other people had accused him of. If he wasn't just out of practice.

What sort of job did he do all day that had left him so stodgy?

Frowning, he raised his glass once more from where he'd lowered it in surprise. "To my bank," he said, with a wryness that proved her point.

 

"I always heard discussing politics at dinner was rude," she said, knife scraping against the plate as she cut through her chop, belying her casual tone. "But I figured it was 'cause people got testy, not 'cause it was boring."

The wine-tasting had been both a success and a failure. A success because he'd included her in the process every subsequent night they'd dined together — seven times over two weeks, a record — and even deferred to her preferences. And he actually looked at her, though whether that was because he at last approved of her appearance since she'd started buying more of her dresses rather than making them remained to be seen.

A failure because he'd return to his Buster Keaton act the moment the wine was selected and their appetizers arrived, no matter how relentless she'd become in her attempts to engage him in conversation.

She'd finally ordered the lamb, the way he'd first suggested, and of course it was delicious. Had he given her a single _I told you so_? Of course he hadn't.

Desperate measures, then. The presidential election, she'd been sure, would spark his interest. Never mind that it was duller than dirt, what man could resist droning on about Democrats this, Republicans that, _Hoover's gotta go_ , forever and ever amen?

Apparently Graves was that man.

His handsome face gave her no hints at all about what she might've been doing wrong — he was blank as new paper, his eyes typically downcast in what she'd first taken as melancholy. She wasn't so sure any more. Maybe he was an idiot. Or maybe he was too tired to be bothered.

"Don't you care about politics, Mr. Graves?" she asked with a dash of despair when she ran out of material.

Fork aloft, roasted cauliflower skewered and ready to be consumed, he paused. "Unfortunately."

 _Miracle of miracles, a response_. "How come 'unfortunately?' Are you on the losing side?" Resting her forearms against the edge of the table, fork and knife held precisely over the plate, she gave him a knowing look. "You are, aren't you?"

"Name a man who hasn't lost something in the last three years and you've named someone who had nothing to lose in the first place," he said so drily his words stung like dust in her eyes. That should've been the end of her goading him.

Would've been if she hadn't had one too many glasses of wine, and more frustration that she could take. "You know, you ain't making it easy on me," she said, setting her cutlery down with a clatter as she slouched back in her chair.

"Excuse me?"

She waved a hand willy-nilly at him, careful not to knock over her wineglass. "You. You just sit there like a bump on a log and let me prattle on about God knows what for hours, and you don't say zip. Is that really what you're paying me for? Lecturing?"

Far more deliberate than she had been, he set down his fork and knife, wiped his mouth neatly with his napkin before speaking. "I thought women liked to talk. The one I know does."

 _The_ one _? Does he mean me? Surely not._

"We do! Or I guess some of us do, my sister doesn't much," she said, filing that tidbit away before the typical pang of guilt at the thought of her sister was too strong to ignore. Likely eating a cold sandwich and following some poor soul out in the rain while Queenie sat inside and had lamb in a nice — though lonely — restaurant.

"But that's not the point," she continued with a toss of her hair. "Talking is like dancing. Sure, I can do it alone, but it's a lot more fun with a partner."

"I hate dancing," he muttered as he leaned back in his chair, mirroring her, and continued before she could protest, "but I understand what you mean."

"Then say something!" With a disbelieving laugh, elbows propped on the table, she rested her chin atop her interlaced fingers and gave him a coquettish look. "You can't really enjoy listening to me all night."

To her surprise, a faint pink bloomed across his cheeks as he lowered his gaze, slow as a drop of wine spreading color through the cotton threads of a white tablecloth.

Her mouth had fallen open slightly; she covered quickly with a challenge: "Name who I'm gonna vote for."

"Roosevelt," he said, but she wasn't satisfied. Everyone in New York with two wits to rub together was going to vote for him. He snorted when she said as much, lips curling briefly, then said, "So's your sister."

"What's my sister's name?" Most men could never remember, but it appeared he did, along with: whether she thought the FBI would nab that German bank robber with the funny name ("Grindelwald's Austrian, and you think yes but you're very mistaken"); whether her sister had noticed any of the new clothes she'd made her (no, despite wearing them); and, finally, which soup kitchen she'd been volunteering at (the one on Orchard and Broome, where she was careful not to make direct eye contact with her neighbors).

"So you do pay attention," she said with no small amount of delight. "Just think how much more fun it would be for both of us if you talked back. I'm not askin' you to Charleston, Mr. Graves, just manage a box step."

He reached for his wine, murmured, "No more politics and I'll make more of an effort." After a healthy swallow, he lowered his glass to find her still staring at him with obvious curiosity. "Yes?"

"I was just wonderin' what you do all day, stirring conversationalist that you are." She'd never asked him directly, thinking she could puzzle it out on her own, but she'd come up empty-handed, no thanks to the few clues he'd given her over the last week. "You hate dancing, so that knocks vaudeville off the list. Unless you're trying to fool me."

"Nothing that would interest you," he said, but she'd gotten used to his breezy dismissals and it didn't faze her.

In fact, it only piqued her interest further. Nothing with dancing, if he were to be believed, despite having the body for it, but the way he dressed? Sure, the cuts and fabrics were all in style, but his color choices rushed past conservative and straight into funereal — everything was black and charcoal, his neckties eschewing the louder prints for subtler diamonds and stripes. The wildest he got was a periwinkle blue scarf or ruby cufflinks. If everything hadn't been so well-tailored, and if she hadn't an eye for fashion and the costs of it, she might've taken him for a priest. Or maybe a mortician. They must've been gloomy characters as well. Who ever heard of a mortician dressing like a gangster?

Then there was the schedule he'd claimed was so hectic. While his appearances at dinner were still erratic, he hadn't been late since that first awful night and never forgot to call ahead if he was held up.  Was it normal for him to work such long hours so irregularly, or was it a fluke? He made no attempt to illuminate matters for her, and no explanation she groped for fit. Besides, what kind of man refused to talk about his work, to puff himself up or look for female sympathy? That too had to be a hint.

Finally, there was his ad. Men turned to the classifieds when they looked around themselves and couldn't find what they wanted close at hand. Graves was obviously rich; his reach had to be longer than most.

Or was it someone else's reach he was concerned about?

A ghastly thought occurred to her; she sat up straight, clutching her napkin as she looked to his hands. His right still lay against the table, long fingers loose against the base of his wineglass, but his more important left was out of sight. "You ain't married, are you?"

Not the first time she'd asked a man that. Most said no, eager to reassure her. A few had said yes; a couple had wanted to know why she cared.

Graves covered his mouth with his hand — his left hand, she noted, and there wasn't a ring in sight, not even a signet ring — and stared at her in characteristic inscrutable silence.

She crumpled the silk napkin up in her hand unconsciously. "Well? Are you or ain't you? Because if you are..." If he was, then what? They were only having dinner. He was only paying her to have dinner with him, he wasn't paying for anything else. Still, the thought rankled that he might've been using her to sneak out on his wife.

Was that why he'd turned to the personals and her, someone so far from his class? Why he never talked about himself? Why for three Tuesdays in a row she'd eaten alone? She could picture all too easily a family dinner at the Graveses — everyone in black and nobody talking.

His hand curled into a fist that he tapped against his lip for a moment before he dropped it, features schooled into a steady neutrality. "No, Miss Goldstein, I am not married."

"Really?" She released the napkin to smooth it over her lap before stretching her arm out across the table. "Gimme your hand."

Peering at her, he laid his hand in hers palm-up, eyebrows shooting up as she twisted it to so she could see the back of it as she leaned precariously over the table. Like the rest of him, his hand was pale, fingers straight, with a dusting of dark hair between the knuckles and across the back that spread up beneath the silver face of his wristwatch and his white shirt cuff.

And most importantly…

"You'd have a tan line," she said, tugging at his ring finger, turning it — and the rest of his hand by extension — slightly to examine it. "If you wore a wedding ring, I mean. Most guys forget that."

"Hm." Canting his head to the side, he looked where she indicated. Or perhaps at her smaller hand where it curled around the tips of his fingers. "You'll have to trust me then."

A laugh leapt out of her; she released his hand to sit back down. "Guess so. Don't disappoint me." Her napkin was a good deal colder than his hand had been. As were the remainders of her lamb chop, she realized.

"There's still plenty of time," he muttered before drinking down what was left of his wine and holding the glass out to Sam to refill.

 

Queenie held her breath as she shut the door, praying it wouldn't creak too loud, then slipped off her shoes before she padded across the warped floorboards. It had been a handful of weeks since Graves had started to talk with her properly, and time had taken on a strange flexibility. Sure, they had yet to settle into a regular schedule, and she was still picking the topics and voiced three opinions to every one of his, but he _had_ opinions! Besides, she would talk less if he'd stop prodding her along with so many carefully-worded questions.

"Are you just afraid I'll get into a snit if you disagree with me?" she'd asked in turn when he'd managed to deflect each of her questions back at her.

Creeping through the dark apartment, she smiled to herself thinking of how he'd ducked his head and fiddled with his coffee spoon, lips pursed. "Just habit." Giving nothing away as usual.

There had been no time to ponder over that clue. Once she would've had oodles as dining with him had felt like it took an eternity; now she'd barely sat down before the plates were cleared away and he was handing her an envelope.

"Tomorrow night," he'd said as he helped her into the taxi, squeezing her gloved hand briefly as she bade him good night.

She was still thinking of how his leather glove had slid against her own when she walked into a chair and swore under her breath.

"Queenie?"

The light flicked on as she was rubbing her throbbing foot. Precariously balanced, she wobbled in the sudden light, blinking. "I was trying to be quiet."

"Are you alright? You're home late," Tina said, tugging at the sleeve of her pajama shirt and frowning. "You're just getting in now?"

"Um." She let her foot fall to stand up straight and check her watch. Nearly 11:30 — time really had gotten away from her. So much for beating Tina home. "Yeah?"

Ruffling her hair wearily, Tina gave her a wry smile as she strode past her to the fridge. "I take it you had a good night," she said, pulling out the bottle of milk and nodding at her dress.

She should've left her coat on; then she could've pretended to be at work. "It was okay," she said, watching Tina pour a glass of milk, shaking her head when she offered it to her. Wine and milk didn't sound like the best combination.

"You've been going out with this guy for a while." Tina joined her at the dining room table, arms folded atop the scarred surface to keep it from rocking on its one short leg. "Anyone I know?"

"No." She smiled, trying to remember the lie she'd told Tina- how long ago? Time had sped right by. It was June. Had she really been seeing Graves for a couple of months already?

The shoebox full of cash hiding under her bed called a loud _yes_.

"Nope, nobody you know," she said again.

Tina stared at her as she drank her milk.

"Just that guy from the restaurant." What had she said the first time? He delivered something? "The delivery guy. Joe."

"Not Joe Abernathy?" Nothing fake about how she grinned in response to Queenie's disgust, but her eyes were hard.

The way Graves's got when she'd reacted some way he hadn't expected and he was trying to puzzle it out, she thought with some fondness.

"Huh?"

"I asked what he delivers," Tina said. "To Abernathy's."

"Uh… things? Things needin' delivering? Oh Teenie, I promise it ain't what you think," she said in dismay as her sister dropped her head to the table and hid her face in her arms. "I don't know what you think, but I ain't up to it, honest."

"Please tell me you're not seeing Jacob again," came Tina's muffled response. When she lifted her head to pillow her chin on her arm, her eyes looked sadder than ever in their dark circles. "I know times are tough, and he was always sweet on you-"

"Teenie." Her voice trembled with hurt. "How could you say a thing like that?"

"I stopped by the restaurant on my way home. I wanted to say hey," she said, then grimaced. "Abernathy had a couple of things to say that weren't so nice. I'll spare you the details."

"Great." Opening her purse, she pulled out her handkerchief to dab at her watering eyes. "Thanks."

"You could've told me, you know." Wan with sisterly concern, Tina sat up and stretched out her hand to jostle Queenie's arm. "I wouldn't have been mad. He's an ass."

"I know." Folding and refolding her handkerchief, Queenie struggled to sort out what to say. The jig was up but that didn't mean she knew where to start. She didn't have any practice in confessing. "I didn't want you to worry. You've been workin' so much, I thought I'd find something else before you found out."

"Are you saying you haven't?" Tina leaned forward, intent on looking her in the eye. When she didn't reply, she bit the inside of her cheek, then said in a hesitant voice, "At least tell me you're being… careful?"

"Oh my God," Queenie gasped. "Tina, I'm not sleeping around. I'm just having dinner." Face hot, she rushed to explain — with a minimum of self-editing — what she'd been up to: the ads in the paper, the blind dates that went nowhere, the odd arrangement she'd reached with Graves. "I promise, all we do is eat. _Food_. He pays, then I leave. We're not even alone together, there's waiters and everything," she finished.

Tina looked pleased by none of it. "That's it? He's _never_ asked you to do anything else, and he pays you- How much does he pay you, exactly?"

"Kind of a lot." Queenie bit her lip, then shoved her handkerchief back in her purse in exchange for the envelope of money Graves had given her barely an hour ago. Passing it to Tina, she said, "But it's just dinner, honestly. That's not illegal, right?"

"Technically no." Tina's eyes widened as she thumbed continuously through the sheaf of fives. "This explains all those new clothes you been makin' me and the groceries you thought I didn't notice. How often does he- No, you know what, never mind, I don't want to know," she said, shoving the envelope back into her hand. "But Queenie, you gotta promise me you'll be careful. With prostitution-"

"I'm not a prostitute," she protested, envelope of cash crinkling in her hand.

"-it's always the woman who's left holding the bag." She patted Queenie's cheek with long affection. "Trust me. A guy who has to pay just to get a woman's time of day… there's something hinky there. You don't know anything about him. I know you're a smart cookie, but be careful."

Again, the urge to protest rose in her — this time on Graves's behalf. Sure, he kept insisting they eat alone, but that was as intimate as they got. He kept to his side of the table, he never made any lewd comments or suggested she go home with him — for the first few weeks he'd barely talked at all.

And she knew plenty about him. She knew how he liked his steak, who he'd vote for tomorrow if given the chance, that his opinion of the FBI was in the basement. That he liked to listen to her talk.

But looking into Tina's brown eyes, shining with worry, she knew better than to come to his defense.

Besides, hadn't she often wondered the same about his motives? Fifty dollars a night was, by anyone's standards, a ridiculous amount to pay for dinner company.

Anyone normal.

And she didn't even know his first name.

"I'll buy a switchblade tomorrow, alright?" she said with a sniffle and a smile.

"You can borrow mine," Tina said, pinching her cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

The relief she'd felt when Graves first handed her an envelope full of cash paled in comparison to how she felt that first weekend after baring all — or nearly all — to Tina.

Living in each other's pockets the way they did was nothing new, it was just that the pockets had shrunk after the crash. Queenie knew as well as anyone that everybody had their secrets, but deliberately concealing such an important part of her life from her sister had rubbed her conscience raw the way an old pair of ill-fitting shoes had her feet. She'd chucked those as soon as she was able; it was time Tina had the same opportunity. Her good fortune had been impossible to enjoy when it hadn't extended to her sister.

Still, Tina's doubts about Graves's motives made her own more difficult to ignore. When she'd been strapped for cash and in it alone, it had been simple: do what had to be done and hope for the best. But as she walked up the misty street towards the restaurant, she found ignoring the suspicions that followed her close as a shadow wasn't so easy anymore.

_If all he wants is to have dinner, why doesn't he do so with family or friends? Hasn't he got any?_

She could see him by the western end of the restaurant, raincoat open and waving in the chilly breeze. When exactly he'd started waiting outside for her was a mystery, but the sight of him loitering on the sidewalk and often times having a cigarette had become familiar to her. Tonight she couldn't tell if he was smoking; he was facing away, hands out of sight.

The urge to sneak up on him became irresistible; she lightened her step, biting her lip in anticipation of surprising him. He was always so put-together, so droll, it would be a real thrill to catch him off-guard for once the way he did her so frequently.

 _Yeah, he_ is _put-together,_ she thought, noticing the crimson hand-picked stitching around the edge of his collar. _And loaded. Isn't there a club he should be going to? Don't the upper ten all know each other?_

"Miss Goldstein," he said when she was within touching distance, "it's not a good idea to sneak up on me."

She dropped the hand she'd raised to tap him on the shoulder as he turned. He wasn't smoking after all; his hands were busy wringing his black leather gloves, which he stuffed into his pocket.

 _Busy thinking about wringing your neck? Maybe he's like Bluebeard,_  said the voice in her head that she shushed at once. _Bluebeard took them all home, silly._

Out loud, she said, "How'd you know it was me?" Leaning to one side to look down the street as he had, she saw only rain-spattered parked cars. "The rear-view mirrors?"

He shook his head as he walked her towards the restaurant doors. "Your perfume."

"What? Really?" Boggling, she paused halfway in the door; only a nudge of his hand to her back got her moving again. "Is it too strong? Why didn't you say?"

"Because it isn't." As if to prove his point, he helped her with her coat and umbrella, handing both over to the doorman along with her hat before removing his own. "I was downwind, and you always wear the same scent."

"Oh." There was no point to asking if they'd be dining downstairs; she drifted after Albert through the room, towards the stairs in the corner. Too busy chewing over the fact that Graves recognized her perfume to notice the other diners giving them curious looks and whispering.

"You sprayed your letter with it."

They were halfway up the steps when again she halted to look back over her shoulder at Graves, who stood below her with a strange expression. Not impatience, though his brows were furrowed and he chewed the side of his cheek; no, he avoided her gaze.

"Sorry," she said, and hurried up the stairs after Albert. She'd sprayed all of the letters she'd set high hopes on, thinking it gave them a more personal touch that men might respond to. But Graves had never commented on it, nor her perfume, in all the times they'd dined together.

 _Something hinky_.

His tetchy mood persisted through seating, ordering, and when she suggested they skip the wine for a change, he absently agreed.

"Surprise me," she said when Sam asked what she'd like to drink. "But it's gotta be fun."

Graves asked for no such thing. "Whiskey. Neat."

"Not an Old Fashioned?" Queenie piped up. "Or a John Collins?"

Sam actually hesitated until Graves cut him a look, and then he was doing his best professional scamper.

"You're gonna be a real riot tonight, I can tell," she said, pillowing her chin in her palm. "What's eating you?"

As he had in the stairwell, he avoided looking at her, preferring instead to straighten the spotless cutlery laid out before him.

"Ooh, don't spill all at once." When his frown deepened, her grin widened. Should she be worried rather than teasing? As quickly as the possibility occurred to her, she dismissed it. If he was looking for a reason to get shot of her, all he had to do was stop showing up. Easy peasy.

No, it couldn't have been anything she had done.

Her certainty was reinforced by the sight of Graves tossing back his whiskey the second it was set down in front of him. "Another." He'd passed the glass back to Sam before Queenie had even touched hers. "My presence is required at a function this Saturday," he said with all the enthusiasm of a convict eyeing the hangman's noose.

Queenie looked up from her glassful of sunshine — a Golden Dawn, Sam had called it. "Like a party?  _You're_ goin' to a party?"

A slight hesitation as he looked past her, but there was no sound of Sam's feet on the stairs. "Yes."

"No wonder you're thrilled." She sipped her drink in a weak attempt at hiding her smirk. "Me, I love a good party."

"I figured as much," he muttered, rubbing the delicate bridge of his nose, onyx cufflinks flashing. "Dinner will be provided. There will also be dancing-"

"Not _dancing_ ," she said, smothering a laugh with a healthy swallow of her drink. "You must be tickled pink. I'm not sure where, but somewhere."

His massaging fingers had migrated to his forehead, but he had no swift response to her teasing as he normally did.

Struck by a sudden thought, she set down her drink with a clink. "Are you trying to ask me to go with you?"

Maybe he still thought she was pulling his leg; Graves dropped his hand as he looked... not at her precisely, but in her general direction. "I'll pay you two hundred dollars extra, since it is surplus to our arrangement as well as short notice. I'll also cover any expenses you might incur, such as for a new evening dress. As I said, dinner will be included-"

 _Two hundred_ \- "Isn't that a bit much?" she asked faintly.

But he seemed not to hear her as he continued, "And while I don't know how long the event will go on for, I never stay past two hours. You'll be expected to mingle." The word sounded like a curse coming from him. "People will consider you my- my guest."

"Don't you mean your date?" She could've bitten her tongue at the sharp look he gave her, but it wasn't a reprimand such as what he'd given Sam. It was shocked. _Ain't you paying for the pleasure of my company?_

His frown had faded under the light of his surprise, yet his voice was heavy with resignation as he said, so quietly she wouldn't have heard him had they been downstairs in the busy dining room, "Yes."

There was a creak off to the side before she could respond, and Sam and his twin entered, bearing their appetizers. The service at Roarke's was never slow; had their conversation really been so brief?

She spread her napkin across her lap, head bowed as she thought hard. Two hundred on top of what she already had? More than enough to see her and Tina out of the Lower East Side. They could live somewhere decent, she could look for a respectable job, and she wouldn't have to rely on some close-mouthed man to support her.

Yet while all these very reasonable and responsible thoughts rushed through her mind, she couldn't help feeling a touch of excitement. A real upper-class party? Dinner and dancing, fancy clothes, the works?

Just _a party?_ Tina whispered to her. _If he has to pay to get you to go with him… and has he ever said who he works for? Suppose it's a mob party._

That persistent doubt may have had a point, but still: the idea of Graves in the middle of it all wasn't half as off-putting as he seemed to find it, and not just because he was paying her. Peering at him through her lashes, she was sure she'd detected a tightening of his sharp jaw as he'd stumbled through his brief explanation of her role, a blush staining his clean-shaven cheeks when she'd said the word _date_.

If she hadn't stepped on his proverbial toes, would he have asked her… well, normally? Would he still have suggested she required payment to attend?

As she watched him steady his spoonful of soup against the bowl before risking it, she wondered if he didn't know the answers either.

 

In spite of all the things she didn't know, Queenie's excitement grew throughout the week.

"It's been ages since I went to a real bash," she said for the hundredth time as she used one piece of bagel to smear cream cheese over the other. Not one of Jacob's — she couldn't bring herself to go to his bakery, though she'd been up and down Orchard often enough to know it was still around — but good regardless.

"So you keep saying." Tina stole her pickle and crunched it down while she protested. "Do you even know where it is yet?"

Rather than admit she did not, Queenie took a large bite of her bagel and hoped Tina would drop the issue. She'd taken a day off for once so Queenie knew miracles could happen.

"What about an invitation?" Tina said instead, gearing up for a proper interrogation. "You seen one of those yet? You said it's for work, but what's the occasion? Is it somebody's birthday, an anniversary, a retirement? You've been looking for a dress all day, but what if you buy one and then find out it's supposed to be a costume party?"

Never mind that she'd pondered those same questions; the thought of Graves attending a masquerade almost made her choke. Swallowing thickly after her sister clapped her on the back a couple of times, Queenie managed, eyes prickling, "I'm sure he would've said if it was. Or maybe not, he probably would've lost his invitation on purpose."

Tina frowned at her as she snagged a quarter of her bagel. "Besides how he claims to hate parties and dancing, he never tells you anything about anything. I know the money's good, kiddo, but how do you put up with this guy? He doesn't sound like your usual type at all. Maybe he doesn't tell you anything because he's boring," she snickered.

"Yeah, well, he'd still be the handsomest wet blanket I've ever met," she said with a shrug, slapping Tina's hand before she could take the remaining quarter of her bagel. "And maybe I don't want to know. I like a mystery."

 

Not that her excuses stopped her from repeating almost all of Tina's questions over dessert later that Thursday night.

He grimaced. If her excitement had grown, so too had his apprehension in equal measure. "It's a work-"

"Function, yeah, I heard," she interrupted, waving her spoon. "Come off it. I know you know more, and _you_ know I know you know, so why don't you just tell me instead of forcing me to drag it out of you like this?" Pleased with her unassailable logic, she scooped up a healthy portion of melting cherry ice cream and ate it.

Sighing, he slouched back in his seat, smoothing one thick eyebrow with a thumb. "You're right." When she carried on enjoying her dessert rather than stop to say _I know I am_ , he continued grimly, "It's a private party celebrating the recent success of my employer. Black tie. For legal reasons, I can't go into further detail. Not until Friday at four o'clock." To her surprise, his glower deepened. "It's ridiculous."

"But it's not a costume party?" She giggled at his naked horror, then sobered, sucking on her silver spoon. Legal reasons? And Friday at four… What happened at four on Fridays? Better question: what was going to happen on  _this_ Friday?

 _That explains why I've seen so much of him the last couple of weeks — whatever it was must've wrapped up_ , she thought with an odd thrill of satisfaction. Surely just of a mystery solved with hindsight.

Busy racking her brain, she didn't notice how Graves cocked his head, regarding her intently over his steepled fingers. Not until he said, "Do you want a hint?"

"I thought you had a rule about not asking questions we both know the answers to," she said with a sly look, filing away how his mouth firmed as though to stop himself from smiling before turning back to the problem at hand. "Alright. You're no Rockefeller but you ain't hurting either; you're too busy to meet a gal the usual way or maybe you're just not used to dealing with women at all-"

"Was there a question in there?" he asked drily. "Am I meant to respond to these charges?"

She pointed her spoon at him as a nanny would a misbehaving child. "Shush, I'm thinking."

"Out loud," he muttered, but settled back in his chair to observe.

"Where was- Right, you deal with men all day," she said with a wink as she tapped her spoon against the bowl with every point of observation. "You avoid talking about work whenever possible, either because you're not allowed or because you think it would make you even more unpopular than you can manage all by your lonesome."

A soft _ting_ of silver against porcelain; it didn't draw Graves's attention away from her face, though he had dropped his hands to hang over his lap, elbows hooked over the arms of his chair.

"You don't mind me talking about whatever comes to mind, even women's topics, but you hate politics," she continued.

_Ting._

His hair was very dark and shiny under the chandelier's light as he tucked his chin, but still he watched her closely, fingers finding the teaspoon beside the saucer of his coffee cup and tracing over it.

"And whatever this party's for is something that everybody will know about by the end of business tomorrow."

He straightened up in his seat, a strange expression on his face. "Isn't the end of the business day five o'clock, not four?"

"If you work in a boring old office," she agreed readily, "I worked in a brokerage for six years, keepin' track of bond and stock certificates. We were always done by five after four unless there was a last-minute emergency 'cause the exchange closes at four."

He'd been tapping the handle of the spoon while she spoke; he stopped. "Which bank?"

"United Savings Amsterdam, though nobody ever called it that," she said, making a face as she scooped up the last of her very melted ice cream. "People liked 'USA' or just United Savings better."

If asked she would've thought it impossible for him to grow any paler. "I see." He licked his lip, then said offhandedly, "Hence your tidy handwriting."

"Used to be my livelihood." Her shrug was casual as she fought not to be too obvious in examining him. Not just his face, more consumptive in color than Byronic, but the way his broad shoulders had tensed when she mentioned her old job.

 _To your bank_ , she'd joked at their first toast. And he hadn't asked why she spoke of her job in the past tense. Sure, a lot of banks had failed, but… Something in her gut said politics or banking. He had too much personal disdain for the first, and he was too informed on the second, doubly so if she included his low opinion of the FBI.

"I'll take that hint now," she said, letting her spoon fall with a bright _clang_ against the inside of the bowl so she could clasp her hands tightly in her lap, where he couldn't see. "If it's still on the table."

His eyes narrowed as his mouth opened, but whatever thought first came to mind he rejected. "Alright."

She wrung her hands, phrasing and rephrasing her question in her mind before giving up and going with her gut. "Shouldn't you be in Chicago right now?"

For a moment she thought she'd been off-base, that she had the timing completely wrong. But Friday was the last round of voting for the DNC, according to the _Journal_ , and with the party on Saturday- Well, it could have been political.

It _could_ have been.

Graves leaned forward over the table, elbow propped atop it as he scrubbed a hand over his jaw, then pressed his loose fist against his mouth. She recognized the gesture from the night she'd accused him of being married, the way he tapped his knuckle against his lips.

This time he did not repress his smile, or at least did a much poorer job of it, as he cradled his cheek in his palm and said, "No, I shouldn't be."

She was so taken aback by his visible happiness that she couldn't remember what he was replying to. His face had changed entirely — there was a hint of a dimple in one cheek that she'd never imagined, crinkles around his eyes that she had surely seen a hundred times before but never noticed, and while his smile had a hint of self-consciousness, it cast him in an altogether younger light.

 _The bags under his eyes are gone too,_ came the wholly inconsequential thought. _He must be sleepin' better._ Subconsciously, she revised her prior estimate of his age sharply downwards — he couldn't be over forty by more than a year or two.

"I work for Mutual American, Miss Goldstein," Graves continued, unaware of — or perhaps unsurprised by — her staring. "I'm a bank man, which is the most hated sort of man to be without bearing the surname 'Hoover.'"

Someone — Sam or his twin — let out a discreet cough.

"Oh," she said as his words finally sank in. Then: "I knew it!" Queenie grinned unabashedly across the table at Graves, and resisted the urge to clap her hands in girlish delight. "I really did. I'm a lot smarter than I look, you know," she said, brushing back a wayward curl.

"Of course you are." His smile, nowhere near as large as hers to start with, faded fast as he watched her preen, and was soon replaced by a weary resignation. "I never doubted it."

 

Refusing dessert in favor of a second cup of coffee while she enjoyed another well-deserved scoop of cherry ice cream, Graves didn't break his silence until he'd signed the bill at the door and helped her with her coat.

"You're having difficulty finding a suitable outfit," he said, following her out the door with a tip of his hat to Albert and a paper tip to the boy at the door.

"Only because you didn't give me any clue of what sorta bash it is at all until tonight." Rather than look for a checkered cab, she loitered near the restaurant waiting for him to put on his gloves, her hands in her pockets. The envelope, as ever, was already in her purse. "Now that I know what I'm in for, it should be a snap."

"Then an afternoon at Bergdorf Goodman would be unnecessary?" His eyes twinkled in a way she was loathe to attribute solely to the streetlights along their stretch of 57th. "Since you went on and on about it," he began as she gaped at him.

"I-I didn't go _on_ -"

"It's been the first thing out of your mouth every day since Monday." Though he craned his neck, ostensibly looking for a cab, he made no motion to hail any of the two or three that whizzed by. "I wouldn't be surprised if you escalated to prayer soon."

"I'd never pray for something like that," she murmured, turning his words over and over in her mind, in no rush to leave and discover she'd imagined the last minute. "I- Really? Bergdorf's?"

"Tomorrow at one," he said, as unconcerned at the prospect of a visit to the most popular clothing store in town — in _America_ — as he had been with his ability to abandon a table at a Manhattan restaurant during the dinner rush and secure another upon arrival. "If you can't find something there-"

"Then I guess I'll be going naked," she said.

Graves's stare into oncoming traffic became decidedly more glazed. "I was going to say 'you'll be out of luck.'"

Peering up at him — _he looks so tall but he ain't got more than an inch or two on me_ — her smile turned coy. "What're you gonna say now?"

He swallowed, then raised his arm. "Good night, Miss Goldstein," he said as a taxi pulled up on cue.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked, squeezing his hand as he helped her off the curb and into the car. "Same time as usual?"

He hesitated, then ducked his head. "Tomorrow." Shut the door soundly and stepped away.

 

"Teenie, Teenie, he works for a bank." The mattress squeaked under her elbows as she huddled close to whisper into her snoozing sister's ear. "It's some gala for his bank, he's not a mobster or a murderer or even a politician. He works for a bank. Did you hear me?"

" _Ugh_." Tina rolled away from her. "No wonder he's got so much money, he's taken it from everyone else," she said, and shoved her head under the pillow.

 

It never failed to surprise her how geographically close two places could be in Manhattan while still feeling worlds apart. Less than five miles separated Roarke's and Abernathy's; the store where she bought her fabrics was on the same avenue as Bergdorf Goodman. Yet as Queenie strolled along the edge of Central Park, she felt as though she were in a completely different country from the one she had inhabited only a few months ago.

 _What a difference money can make_. The thought was accompanied by the nearly animalistic relief one felt at the end of a hard day when a lady was finally free to take off her shoes, shuck her stockings, and wiggle her naked toes in peace. The feeling didn't last past a glance in towards the park, where uniformed police on horseback were attempting to herd a dozen or more raggedy people towards police wagons. Would they rename the Hoovervilles if another president were elected?

A tall boy with a bowl cut locked eyes with her across the grass; when they both looked quickly away, she hurried south. Guilt followed her across 59th Street, and the sensation of having done nothing to deserve her good fortune persisted despite the distraction of Bergdorf's enthralling window displays. Up one side of the building and down the other she walked, marveling at the beautiful clothes and furs on display — this window showcasing snappy European designs, that the more familiar American styles — until she remembered that she could actually go in to shop. She'd dragged Tina into Bloomingdale's shortly after the crash once for some window shopping, convincing her to go along with her make-believe act, and it had been fun until she'd nabbed a shoplifter and they'd left empty-handed.

 _A lot of those outfits are so easy to make,_  she'd said to her sister on the train home, voice ringing with false cheer. _I could do it in a snap, you just tell me what you'd like._

"So much for all that," she said to herself, gazing up at the mannequins clad in Chanel and Vionnet.

Her watch read 12:55 p.m. when she hurried into the building, smiling at the uniformed doorman as she passed, but her momentum evaporated as she took in her surroundings.

Everything glittered.

Clutching her purse, she drifted closer to a counter where jewelry lay on velvet displays behind glass so clean and clear it appeared nonexistent. Following the rest of the crowd, she circulated through the room, eyes growing larger with every new discovery. The many mini-chandeliers hanging from the ceiling lit up diamond necklaces so their swirling designs appeared to dance; brooches in gold, silver, platinum shaped like all manner of bird and beast, their gems winking like eyes. Here flashed pendant earrings so big they'd bend an ear; there, bracelets shaped like flower wreaths shone as if dew-touched, with tiny perfect petals she had to squint to make out.

But what she couldn't see were prices — not a single tag to be found. It was like Roarke's all over again.

_How much could a single pair of pink pearl earrings possibly cost?_

"Excuse me, miss."

Her wistful sigh over pink diamonds became a startled gasp as a young blonde woman in a trendy dove gray ensemble appeared at her elbow.

"I'm so sorry," she said, hands clasped before her. "Are you Queenie Goldstein?"

A smile instinctively took up its position as she glanced about. No sign of Graves anywhere. "Uh, yeah, that's me."

Tension drained out of the woman at once; she held out her hand. "I'm so glad! I've been waiting for you, Miss Goldstein. I'm Ruby," she said as they shook hands. "I'm a personal shopper here at Bergdorf's, and I'm here to help you. I understand you're looking for an evening gown?"

Queenie's smile became more perplexed as she again surveyed the room. There wasn't a single familiar face in sight, just Ruby waiting patiently before her. "I'm sorry, what? Me?"

"Oh yes. Providing you _are_ Queenie Goldstein, but he gave your exact description," she said, eyes roaming over Queenie's face, lingering on her hair. "Mr. Graves set it all up with the store, you don't need to worry about a thing."

It was their first failed dinner all over again. "Good grief," she muttered. Hopefully things would go a lot smoother the second time around now that she had some idea of what to expect when Graves was directing things from off-stage.

"Did he- He didn't say anything about coming himself? Maybe later?" There was nothing she could do about the hopefulness in her voice. _Tomorrow at one_.

Ruby shook her head. "I'm sorry, no. Not that I'm aware of."

"I see." Well, he was true to his word even when circumstances changed — he'd called ahead. It was her fault for misinterpreting things.

Ruby extended her hand before her, indicating the elevators at the far end and all the other expensive stuff Queenie had yet to see. "But I'm sure we can have lots of fun without him," she said.

"You're on," Queenie said, mustering up some enthusiasm at the prospect of doing some serious shopping and squashing her disappointment. "But if we're going to be lookin' at dresses together, you have to call me Queenie, okay?"

"Yes, Miss Goldstein," she said with a wink as they proceeded to the elevators.

 

Queenie sat down hard on the plush velvet bench inside the change room and let out an explosive sigh. "I'm gonna end up going naked after all," she said to herself, tugging her cream silk dressing robe over her knee.

They'd been at it for hours. Ruby had gone over the details with her — event type, color preferences — on their way up to the fourth floor, and, after perusing the endless racks together for some idea of Queenie's personal taste, she'd sequestered her in a change room larger than the bedroom she shared with Tina.

"I need your measurements," she said, producing a soft white measuring tape from nowhere. "It'll make things a lot easier, trust me."

She had, and while all the dresses more or less fit, none of them were quite right.

"A challenge," Ruby'd said, a twinkle in her eye as she took another three dresses to hang up on the polished bronze rack she'd wheeled over, where the rest of the rejects were accumulating. "Challenges are good. They're opportunities to prove yourself."

She brought every color Queenie had professed a liking for, and even a few she hadn't. A silk sheath in peach; a halter-style gown of navy velvet; a romanesque lilac that would have been alright but for the belt, which she could not make up her mind about and ultimately passed on.

"Do you normally buy off the rack, or do you make your own clothes?" Ruby asked as Queenie turned side to side in front of the tri-fold mirrors, eyeing the hemline of a silver satin number.

"Make them," she said, mentally discarding the dress. She didn't like how low the hem was in the front; one wrong step and she'd tear right through it. And the horizontal seam was so messy. "Why? Do you think it's made me too picky?"

Ruby shook her head. "I think your requirements are more stringent than they might be otherwise, but that's not a bad thing. You want what you want."

Scoffing, Queenie gathered up the skirt and turned once more before the mirrors, examining her back. "I'm not sure I know what I want," she admitted. The back of this one was better than the others; she liked the rhinestone decoration that attached the shoulder straps to the back of the dress, and how the fabric hung over her rear.

She bit her lip. Would Graves like it? After all, he was footing the bill, and it was his party. It seemed only fair he have some say too.

Fair. Right.

"I'm sure if we keep going, process of elimination will come through." Ruby's optimism was boundless, but Queenie wasn't sure her supply of evening gowns was.

Stocking feet curling into the dusty rose carpet of the dressing room, Queenie waited for Ruby to return with a new crop of dresses and struggled to piece together what exactly she wanted. Something pretty, but not outlandish. More glamorous than risqué; it wasn't the '20s anymore, and she wasn't a flighty young girl. And she wanted Graves to-

Ruby's brisk three knocks on the door pulled her head out of the clouds. "I'm so sorry for the wait, I had to take a call. But I brought a few very strong candidates and some extra help."

"Am I that bad?" Retying the belt of her robe, Queenie opened the door, half-hoping to see Ruby and a miraculously-arrived Graves. Instead she was greeted by the sight of Ruby holding out two dresses, while a second sales girl, a brunette this time, carried another as well as a couple of shoeboxes.

"I'm Cecily," she chirped. "I was going to help you with your shoes later on, but apparently things have gotten kinda tricky?"

"Great. I could probably use another hand." Her smile was forced but neither seemed to notice as she took the first dress Ruby handed her and retreated behind the change room door.

It was white. Not that she hated white, but it wasn't her favorite either — it made her nervous. A party with drinks, food… As she hung up her robe and pulled the dress off the hanger, she remembered how she'd barrelled into Graves the night they'd met.

 _A dress like this wouldn't survive that sort of collision_ , she thought, twisting to do up the halter strap and buttons in the back. It was a stretch but she managed, but the dress still didn't feel right.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" she asked as she opened the door, turning immediately around and pointing at her back. "Or do I just not got enough bend in me to get it on right?"

Silence greeted her question, and she frowned. Was it so obvious?

Soft footfalls as someone — Ruby, most likely — approached, and then fingertips brushed her shoulder blades, folding the corners of the dress down so that the edge was a smooth curve of fabric that bared her upper back. "I believe it's deliberate," Graves said to her.

A tingle ran through her before she looked over her shoulder at him. "Oh. You're here," she said faintly, instead of _thanks_ the way she'd meant to. "I didn't think you were coming."

"Neither did I." He took a deliberate step back, eyes skimming down her form. "You still haven't found a dress."

She laughed, shaking her head so her curls bounced about her face as she strode over to the mirrors to examine her reflection, and those of everyone else nearby. Ruby and Cecily stood a ways behind Graves, dresses slung over their arms, looking like a pair of cats who'd shared a canary, while he looked fresh from the office and… intent. Serious.

Too serious. Having seen him smile, she knew at last what clues to look for; his mouth was a firm line, but there was amusement in his dark eyes as he watched her tug at the tricky cap sleeves and make a face.

"Boring," she decided, but it wasn't until he nodded that she returned to the change room. Hand on the knob, she paused, then canted her head to the side. "Help me with the buttons? They're a real pain."

Graves's hesitation lasted long enough for her to notice before he stepped forward. In the periphery, she could see his large hands approach her back, and then there was a tug, then another, and cool air against her warm skin as her dress began to fall away.

"I'm sure you can manage the rest," he said in a low voice when he'd undone half the buttons.

"Thanks, honey." The door shut with a click behind her, and she leaned against it, knees weak.

What was she doing? Harmless flirting was one thing; what she'd just done had been anything but. The central pillar of their arrangement was that it wasn't physical, which had pleased her just fine every night before.

 _He caught me off-guard, that's all_ , she thought, stripping the dress off. Wrong-footed, she often fell back on flirting. It was instinct; a lifetime of experience had taught her to use her charms to get out of trouble. Most of the time it worked.

 _Rat-a-tat._ "Queenie, how are you doing?" Ruby asked, professional concern solid as her knock. "Do you need a hand with anything?"

Most of the time. "No, everything's hunky dory." Her voice was steady as she pulled her robe back on and rehung the dress. "I don't think this one's a winner," she said, after cracking the door open to an expectant Ruby, passing the dress back with a wince. "Sorry."

"That's alright! There's- Not loads more, but more," Ruby said, trading dresses with Cecily. "Try this one. You did say you wanted glamor, right?"

Queenie nodded, hardly sparing the dress a look as she peered past her at the rest of the room. Graves was nowhere in sight, but she had no doubt he was lurking somewhere. He'd never be so rude as to leave without a word.

He reappeared the moment she stepped out of the change room to stand before the mirrors, jacket unbuttoned and hands deep in his trouser pockets. His hat rested on a chair that had been dragged over before the large windows overlooking 57th Street; evidently he expected to be there a while.

"What's wrong with this one?" he asked, head cocked.

She frowned, twitched her hips; the dress swished pleasingly around her legs. It was blue — not as dark as she'd like, but still pleasant — and it was sparkly. Very sparkly. It had a cleverly concealed zipper up one side so it was easy to get into, the seams were tidy, the hem not too long, the shoulder straps wide enough and the back high enough that she could wear a brassiere. It should have been perfect.

"I don't know," she said, "it's too… it ain't right somehow."

He ambled forward. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah." Her frown deepened as she looked from herself to Graves. In his customary dark charcoal with his broad shoulders and solid build, he looked thoroughly out of place in the middle of so much feminine finery. Like a raven in the middle of a flock of lovebirds.

The dress was exactly her speed, and normally she would've been preening just like one of those birds, but instead it just made her feel… "You don't think it looks silly?" she asked, looking down at the many pleats.

"Do you?" He sounded very close. In the mirror, his reflection looked to be no more than a step or two behind her own. With no table between them, he had a tendency to close the gap.

"Can't you just give me a straight answer for once?" There was an undercurrent of laughter to her words, but it was a despairing sound. She looked down at the dress again, thinking how it would look in a club, under lights. How it would sparkle and shine as she danced. Too long for anything wild, but for close-up dancing… She'd felt that same instant love about her old pink dress too; it had had its positive qualities once upon a time.

" _I_ like it," she said slowly, "but I don't know anything about the kind of parties — fine, _work functions_ — you go to. I don't want you to leave early because of me. Or-or ask for somewhere private to eat on my account."

The moment the words passed her lips regret surged up her throat, but it was too late. Besides, it was true.

She'd known that first night that Graves had been embarrassed to be seen with her, that her apparel hadn't been up to scratch. That hadn't changed the second time around, or the fifth, or even when she sprang for a new outfit from Bloomingdale's. It was hard to believe he found her just that charming, just that diverting, when he'd never made a move the way every man before him had when presented with the opportunity. And there had been plenty of opportunities.

He dressed so seriously — should she have been doing the same? Graves used to have a regular table at Roarke's downstairs with everyone else — would they have gone back to it if she'd dressed more like him? More expensive rather than homemade, more conservative rather than colorful? Or acted more like him? Less bubbly and chatty? He'd gone looking for his opposite, but how often were men truly happy with something so unlike themselves?

She nearly asked, but she'd already said too much and she didn't want to sound ungrateful. When she thought of Tina smiling as she tried on the new twill pants she'd sewn for her, or took a full packed lunch for a change, Queenie felt nothing but grateful.

Biting the inside of her cheek hard, she straightened up and smiled at Graves's reflection. "How 'bout you pick? Since it's all on your dime. That way it'll be just how you want it." Her voice barely wavered.

He'd dropped his chin against his chest; she couldn't make out his expression when he said, in a voice flatter than a silk hanky, "No."

"What?"

"No." Graves raised his head; she froze. His face was stormy, all hard eyes and furrowed brows. "I am not selecting your dress. That is your prerogative. If I have ever given you reason to believe I-I disapprove of what you wear, or do not find it…" He shook his head minutely, jaw clenched hard, before continuing in a harsh whisper, "I was late. You were upset, uncomfortable. Humiliated. My instinct is to retreat, regroup, attack again; I took it for granted that you would feel the same. And then I came to-" He hung his head like a shame-faced child. "I never intended for you to believe that I do not wish to be seen in public with you."

When he exhaled, his breath was warm against the back of her cold neck. Goosebumps broke out over her body as she realized he was angry with himself. Terribly angry.

"This might come as a shock, but I dislike socializing… immensely." The flush spreading across his cheeks was totally at odds with his mulish expression. "There's a reason I generally prefer eating alone."

She couldn't help it; she giggled.

"Yes, yes, you guessed correctly," he said with a sardonic roll of his eyes. His anger dissipated somewhat as he continued, "But you must know that I never meant to make you feel inferior. Certainly not to myself. You-"

"Alright, stop already, you'll make a girl swoon," she said, turning around to face him, hands clutching the sides of her dress so she wouldn't reach for him.

 _To shake him silly_ , she thought, _nothing else_. Though Ruby and Cecily had made themselves scarce, she wouldn't allow this to turn into more of a scene than it already was.

"I get it now. I think we- No, you need to work on your communication skills," she said, poking him in the chest. Impossible to tell by his blinking non-reaction whether he felt it through so many layers — vest, necktie, dress shirt, and that was just what she could see. "I get that you're not a people-person, but you need to learn to talk to me if we're going to carry on with this arrangement of ours. _Talk_ , get it? This whole thing could've been avoided if you bothered to open your mouth and make noises with it once in awhile." She poked him again, harder, for good measure as she added, "And I thought when you said 'tomorrow at one' you'd be meeting me here, so that's another strike against you."

"How many do I get?" Arms loose at his sides, he made no move to push her hand away from where she'd hooked her finger over the edge of his vest. "How many do I have now?"

"I dunno, I don't keep count," she said, emotions swirling as she tugged at his vest. "Life ain't baseball. Just stop actin' like I can read your mind, alright? There ain't much I can't do, but I'm definitely no mind-reader."

He nodded, carefully wrapped his hand around hers, and eased it away from his chest.

 _His_ bare _hand_ , some observant part of her mind noted. The only other time she could recall touching his hand without a layer of leather or cotton between their skin was the night she accused him of stepping out on his wife. Her flush deepened.

"I'm going upstairs to get a cup of coffee," he said, thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand before he dropped it. "Get something in pink. It's your favorite color." Then he turned and walked away, collecting his hat and leaving her standing alone before her triple reflection.

 

The seventh floor could've been in another building for all the resemblance it bore to the fourth floor. Rose carpet, white walls, and tufted velvet benches were replaced by sunburst parquet floors, wallpaper the shade of summer sunlight, and brown leather booths that looked like carved chocolate. Waiters in crisp white uniforms hurried to and fro in a dance she knew well; they weaved deftly around her as she made her way to the far side of the restaurant.

Graves sat alone, hunched over one of the round tables near the large windows, staring out at the city from a chair that had twice as much wing in its back as any she'd ever seen. A porcelain coffee cup stood lonely by an empty plate before him; the sight of him sitting opposite an unoccupied chair made something in her chest clench. How many times had he done that? She'd always hated eating alone, but at least it was temporary; Tina always came back. Had nobody ever come back for him?

She slipped into the empty chair, not at all put out by his lack of surprise at her sudden appearance. "Did you have a sandwich?" Tapping the crumb-dusted plate, she made a moue of apology. "I got bogged down looking at shoes." _And hosiery,_ but she left that part out. He didn't need to know of the immensely technical discussion that had raged over what she'd wear under her dress and how exactly she'd manage it.

"So long as you finally found a dress to go with them." He stretched out from his previous huddle, straightening his jacket.

"Uh huh," she said, launching into a description of it without sparing a glance for the view. The sun was lingering in the west, limning the park as it refused to let go of the first day of July, but the sight of so many ant-like folks below made her head spin. As she spoke — "and besides the rhinestone details at the shoulders, it's really pretty simple" — she shifted her chair slightly away from the windows. It was coincidence that meant she was angled more towards Graves.

Who, before that day, she had never seen in daylight. Nothing much changed — he was still made up of contrasts, all dark clothes and pale skin — but the sun put more silver in his hair than she'd noticed and hit his eyes in a way that surprised her. She'd always thought they were the same color as her sister's, but that wasn't true at all.

"It sounds fine," he said when she'd run out of steam and she'd finished the cup of tea and biscuits a waiter had brought for her. "Is there anything else you require? Jewelry, a coat?"

She grimaced. After what had just happened, she couldn't bring herself to imagine asking for jewelry. The pearl earrings she had at home would be fine anyway. Minimalist. But as for a coat… "Um, well, Ruby did find me this outrageous mink stole to go with it, but I'm sure I could get something less-"

"Tell her to box it up," he said promptly, draining the last of the coffee from his cup. "Anything else?"

As she couldn't look outside, she turned instead to look at the rest of the restaurant, struggling not to show her shock at how easily he tossed around his money. All around them were other shoppers, men and women chatting as they ate and drank, and she wondered how many were there together and how many were… _together_. How many would have disagreements or misunderstandings over the silliest things in an hour or two? Or already had and now were patching things up?

The urge to apologize for how ridiculous she'd been, fueled by the memory of her short sniffle in the change room when he'd left, died under the weight of his steady gaze, where not a trace of resentment could be found.

How had she thought for so long that he didn't like looking at her when that was all he did every chance he got?

"Nope, nothin' comes to mind," she said brightly. The biscuit crumbs left on her plate looked suspiciously similar to the ones that had been on his; perhaps he hadn't had a sandwich after all. "Early dinner?"

 

It was dark by the time she got home; she felt like a bootlegger sneaking in liquor as she climbed the stairs up to her shared apartment, loaded down with bags and boxes of clothes. At least there was no one around to see her; break-ins and muggings had climbed steadily as more and more people lost their jobs. She couldn't guess what her new fur stole would bring in at a consignment shop, but it would've been a lot. Maybe not quite what Graves had shelled out for it. When she'd peeked over his shoulder as he paid, all she'd seen had been a stack of bills growing before the cashier as he briskly counted them out. Fifties, not fives like he gave her; the sight made her feel faint.

"Don't it make you nervous carrying around so much cash? Someone might try somethin' with you." A frisson of anxiety had run through her at the thought.

He snorted. "I'm aware of the risk," he said, and patted the front of his jacket where he'd pocketed his wallet. "But checks make people nervous. No one likes to wait."

Certainly not her, and now she had a whole day to wait. Unlocking the door and hurrying in, she called out for Tina before she remembered she'd switched from early mornings to afternoons. For once she wasn't sad about not seeing her sister; after the day she'd had, some time alone sounded ideal.

And it gave her the chance to hang up her dress and admire it, which she did before anything else. Seated on the end of her bed, she stretched out a hand to brush her knuckle against the creamy satin. It was the prettiest thing she owned, and she hadn't even bought it.

Not like her old pink dress, which hung on the clothes rack beside it. Looking at it now, all she could feel was stupid. It had only been a year or so off-trend when she'd last worn it; she'd taken it in to adjust for her weight loss and her sewing skills weren't anything to sneeze at. Sure, it didn't compare to her new dress; nothing did. It was a dream. But it was still a nice dress now that she could look at it without being blinded by one bad experience.

That experience had been blinding her to a lot of things, she'd realized after her cry in the change room. There wasn't a thing wrong with any of the outfits she'd whipped up since Graves had started paying her — the patterns were all brand-new, the fabrics good quality, and she knew what flattered her. Just as she'd feared, her circumstances had left her vulnerable — not to abuse, as she'd expected, but to self-doubt. She'd banked — literally — on her looks to keep her and her sister off the street, and when Graves hadn't responded to them the way she was used to, she hadn't really known how to deal with it.

Now, rubbing the hem of her new dress between her fingers, she wasn't sure how to deal with the truth.

Jacob had never left her in the dark. He'd been shameless about praising her — pretty, smart, funny, _you bake better than my mom_ when he tried one of her muffins, and _you got a real head for figures_ when he'd watched her tally up some share prices. She'd never had to read between the lines with Jacob, but with Graves it felt like all she did was figure out what was missing by running her fingers along the edges of the few pieces she had.

 _I took it for granted you'd feel the same_. Hadn't she been guilty of the same thing? No wonder she'd been floundering when he zigged where Jacob and other men would've zagged.

"Oh boy," she sighed, letting the dress go.

Her original plan had been to catch herself a rich old man to marry. She'd known that in the long run that would mean doing more than just laughing at a couple of bad jokes — a new diaphragm was hardly an impulse buy. The idea that things might become physical had been palatable at the time only because she'd been desperate and the odds of finding someone acceptable had proven shockingly low. Every failure had, in its own way, reassured her that she'd never have to sink to the level Tina had feared.

But now… with Graves, she couldn't see it as sinking.

Dropping back to lie half on her springy mattress, she let out a sigh that swept up from her very soul. Cheap plaster sprinkled down like snowflakes from the water-stained ceiling as her upstairs neighbors banged around, and thumps came from beyond the wall a mere hand's width away. Alone and unmoving in the matchbox-sized apartment, she could hear the whole building bustle with nighttime activity. More than a dozen families packed in, eating and sleeping and arguing, fretting about what tomorrow would or wouldn't bring.

She was tired of doing the same. She wanted more. She'd worked for more.

And she was okay with Graves wanting more too.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you gonna be okay? You don't mind?"

Tina, lounging on her bed, draped an arm over her eyes. "Holy moley, Queenie," she started. "If you ask me that one more time I swear-"

"I know, I know." She paused in applying her makeup to re-examine her hair in the new mirror. Should she have left the pins in a bit longer? Or would that have been too much? It would've been too much. At least her pearl earrings looked nice. "I'm just nervous."

"Well, quit it. You've got nothing to be nervous about," Tina said, sitting up and fluffing a pillow only to shove it between her back and the wall. "I'm a big girl, I can handle a night on my own without your supervision. But can you say the same?"

"Now who needs to stop?" Turning back to the mirror, she finished powdering her cheeks and moved on to blush. "I'll be fine," she said, careful not to overdo it. "Look how early it starts, it'll probably be full of stiffs, and Graves said he never stays for the whole night. I'll be back by nine, wait and see."

"In that dress?" Tina made a profoundly rude noise. "You're not passing me any wooden nickels, girly."

Peering over her shoulder at her, Queenie fluttered her lashes. "It's nice, ain't it?"

"If you don't come home with a ring on your finger I'll drop dead of shock," Tina said, her own finger resting between the pages of her novel. "Really."

"Teenie, I told you, it ain't that sorta setup." She busied herself rummaging through her cosmetics box, looking for a particular lipstick and hoping her sister wouldn't pick up on her disappointment. "He ain't that kinda guy. He just wants-"

"Some arm candy, right." She didn't need to see her reflection to know Tina was rolling her eyes, but the mattress springs were louder than her sarcasm as she got up, touched her shoulder. "I just- Don't get… over-invested, okay?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, tone light as she uncapped her lipstick when she found it. "It's a job."

"You're going out with this guy tonight, you've _been_ going out with this guy for a few months, and-" Tina let her hand fall as Queenie put on her lipstick. "Don't forget he's paying you. That's all I'm saying."

"Aw, Teenie, don't worry," she said, twisting at the waist to pull her close and give her a smacking kiss on the cheek, leaving a lipstick print on her skin. "I-" Before she could say _I ain't forgotten_ there was the distant sound of a car pulling up. She'd heard at least a dozen come and go since she'd been getting ready, and had stubbornly resisted looking out the window every time, if only because the clock had said it was too early.

 _I'll pick you up at seven o'clock_. That seemed to be their-  _his_ time for meetings.

It was 6:55 p.m.

"Oh, look and tell me if that's him," Queenie said, stowing her lipstick and compact in her clutch and looking around for- she couldn't say what. Did she have everything? Did she even need anything? Perfume. She'd nearly forgotten. "Is it too warm out for this silly thing?" she asked, spritzing herself before she grabbed the white fur stole off her bed. It was softer than a kitten and probably cost more than her dress. "It is, isn't it?"

"Wear it anyway." Tina had her head shoved up under the curtain as she peered down into the street. "Blue car, suspiciously clean, looks like a Ford. And there's- Huh. I think I get it now," she said in a thoughtful tone of voice.

"Ugh." Queenie tossed her stole around her shoulders, shivering as the fur brushed her ticklish back. "Alright, I'm off," she said, giving Tina a brief hug. "Love you, see you later, wish me luck I don't trip going down the stairs."

Tina pulled her head out from behind the curtain and smiled softly up at her. "Have a good time, kiddo. Be careful."

A wave and she was out the door, down the hall, and tackling one set of stairs after another. Six floors later and she was sure that Cecily was some sort of shoe genius — _I know they look high but trust me, you'll need them_ , she'd said, holding out a silver strappy evening shoe — and equally sure that if she could handle the rickety old stairs in her walk-up then she could handle anything.

It _was_ warm out, but that didn't stop a shiver from running over her as she stepped out onto the front stoop and looked down at Graves.

He'd been standing on the curb by the shiny car, hands in his pockets as he took in the neighborhood, looking more out of place than ever. But he straightened up when he saw her, eyes growing wider as she walked down the last set of concrete steps, whispering a prayer to herself she wouldn't take a false step.

"Good evening, Miss Goldstein," he said, holding out his hand, eyebrows high as his eyes flicked from her face to her snow-white stole, the long stretch of her dress. Back to her face.

Her smile was wide. "Evening, Mr. Graves."

 

Unlike the last time she was in a car with him, Queenie did not pointedly ignore Graves in favor of watching the city go by. Instead, she took in the little details of his outfit: the black satin stripes running up the side of his pant leg that caught the passing lights; the teasing hint of white shirt cuff that peeked out from his tuxedo jacket sleeve; his shoulders, still broad even without any of the usual padding a good suit provided.

"I have something for you."

Caught again. In the dark, the planes of his face looked sharper. "Me? More?"

He swallowed, then clicked the dome light on and produced an olive green suede box from his far side. "I spoke with Ruby after you left," he said, handing the box over. "She said you'd been looking at these when she found you."

Covering her mouth with one hand, she sat staring at the contents of the box. Nestled on black velvet were a pair of pendant earrings of pink tourmaline drops suspended from oval diamonds of a darker, almost magenta, pink. They were circled by a slim bracelet of white and pink diamonds.

"Not that yours aren't-"

She shushed him with a finger against his lips. "I ain't about to get upset that you want me to change earrings when these-" she dropped the box in her lap and grabbed his hand. "Thank you."

Darting a look at her hand gripping his, he nodded, jaw clenching. "You're welcome."

"We're going to this bash, where all your coworkers are gonna be, and they're all gonna want to know how we met," she said, passing the box back to him so she could trade earrings, her stole slipping down over her shoulder. "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell them you flattened me in a restaurant," he said neutrally, but when she looked over at him as she felt for the back of her old earring, there was a faint curl to his lips.

"Alright, but just so you know, I had a great story ready about us meeting at Coney Island." Earrings done and head feeling significantly heavier, she held out her wrist. "I was trying to talk my sister into going on a rollercoaster and she, scaredy-cat that she is, wouldn't budge. Used our candy apples as an excuse."

"I can't imagine what I was doing there," he said. After setting her earrings carefully on the velvet, he drew out the bracelet.

"Try. Anyhoo, you were the passing stranger I shanghaied into holding our apples while we went on the coaster," she continued, watching as he looped it around her wrist, breathing in the chilly scent of his cologne. "And when we got off you hadn't taken a bite out of either, and that's how I knew you were a keeper."

"People would like that story," he said, head bent as he locked the security chain. "They'd never believe it, but they'd like it."

"Do you like it?"

He paused, then did up the hidden clasp with dexterous fingers. "Yes." His fingertips brushed her forearm before he pulled her stole back up over her shoulder. It wasn't just the whisper-soft drag of fur against her bare skin that made her shiver. Even after he shifted away on the leather seat, put more distance between them, his touch lingered, like warm breath against a cold window.

"I would'a made them believe it," she said as he turned to look at the Midtown lights. The bracelet was lighter than she'd expected.

 

It didn't occur to her until he was helping her out of the car that she'd forgotten to ask him something very important.

"What's your first name?" she whispered to him as they followed the rest of the crowd into the Plaza Hotel's Fifth Avenue entrance. "I can't call you 'Mr. Graves' all night," she said when he didn't immediately respond. "That would be weird."

A small sigh escaped him as they passed the doormen and proceeded to the check-in desk, where a concierge with a list was playing gatekeeper. "It's Percival," he said, and repeated his full name to the man at the desk after handing over the invitation he pulled from an inner pocket of his jacket. "And guest."

She waved her fingers at the man, who smiled back before ticking off a box and indicating the coat check and-

"Great, more stairs," she muttered, before shifting her stole over one shoulder. It felt lovely, but it was far too warm just in the hall. "I'm going to check this before I lose it, alright… Percy?"

It turned out she'd had no idea what disgust looked like on him until that moment.

"Not a Percy, got it," she said, pursing her lips to keep from laughing. _Even his name has starch in it_ , she thought as she passed the fur over and got a gold token to stow in her clutch. _But it's a nice name regardless. Better than some._

When she rejoined him by the side of the grand white marble staircase, she found his disgust had completely vanished. He looked poleaxed, his mouth open as if he'd been about to say something and forgotten entirely.

"What?" She cocked her head so an earring brushed her shoulder. When he continued to stare, she turned to look back at the rest of the room, wondering if he'd seen something alarming behind her, but all she saw was a hall full of excited partygoers. "What is it?" she asked him again, but when she faced him she discovered his stare had dropped from her face to some point a good deal lower. Near her belly button, if it had been visible.

"You undersold your dress." His voice was throaty, and his eyes burned as they raked back up her body.

She ducked her head, curls falling about her face. The way she'd described it to him at Bergdorf's had been technical: v-neck, bias cut, plunge back with cowl drapery, floor-length. In hindsight — and why was it always in hindsight with him? — she could see how that might have warped his expectations. Nothing about 'cowl drapery' sounded exciting by itself.

But the reality was that the dress was her favorite shade of pink, a delicate spring rose; that the satin clung to her from shoulder to just past her hips, from where the skirt fell in pleats full enough to be dramatic; that her back was almost entirely bare but for the shoulder straps, which framed her body until they fell into elegant folds at her waist. It was everything she'd wanted in an evening gown and more.

And she'd picked it out herself.

"You look…" He shook his head as if dazed, then offered his arm. "Shall we?"

Giggling, she hooked her hand through it, bracelet sliding down her wrist, and prepared to tackle yet more stairs. This time with help.

 

She hadn't been born with eyes big enough to take in all the beautiful things around her.

The corridor was a golden stretch with plush carpet, real crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and, impossibly, more gowns around than she'd seen in her day at Bergdorf's. As they made their way to the ballroom, she could make out music over the excited rumble of the crowd.

"I have to ask you something," Graves said abruptly as she admired a crimson and cream tapestry hanging on the wall. "I should have asked before, but-" he nodded towards the foyer on the left. "Can we speak in private?"

"Sure, but I dunno if I'd call that private," she said. The foyer facing the hall was fronted by mirror-plated doors that had been left open; through them, she could see a dozen or so people within, and beyond them the ballroom beckoned. "Maybe we should get a room."

Just a joke, but Graves stiffened minutely beside her before herding her into the foyer. He didn't say anything at all even when she found an unoccupied spot by the farthest wall. Instead, he stood further away than was strictly comfortable, eyes down, thinking hard.

She could recognize that now, she realized. At some point over the last three months she'd learned what wool-gathering looked like on his face, and nerves. How he became even more withdrawn as he picked out his words, how unwilling he was to offer an opinion unless totally committed or backed into a corner. And God help him if it had to do with feelings — she'd seen how well he managed to express those.

The longer he stood silent, the more hope took root in her chest, though she couldn't've said what exactly she hoped to hear.

"Ask me already," she blurted out, clutch held tight in both hands. "You're killin' me here."

He glanced up at her through his lashes — _he was looking at my dress again_ , she thought — before he sighed. Straightened; stepped closer. "Have you…"

"Yeah?" she asked, breathless.

"Have you read today's paper?"

She stared. Had she- "No? Things have been kinda- Well, you know," she stammered, glancing at the people flowing past them into the ballroom. "Was I supposed to?"

Graves rubbed his cheek, head bowed once more. "I thought when you didn't say anything that… I assumed you knew. You'd asked repeatedly-"

"I told you, things have been busy," she said again, slower in case he hadn't been paying attention. If he hadn't been, he certainly was after she said, "Percival, give it to me straight."

He looked up at once, eyes wide with a child's amazement at seeing a rabbit pulled from a hat. "Mutual American bought United Savings," he said all at once, as though compelled. "It was announced yesterday afternoon. We're going to be making a limited public offering of stock on Tuesday to pay down USA's debts and build up goodwill for the merger."

"I don't…" When she bit her lip, she saw his eyes drop slowly down to watch the motion. "I dunno what any of that has to do with me," she said, softly apologetic. "Your bank bought my old one? Great. Enjoy. Am I supposed to care?" She reached out and snagged his jacket sleeve between her fingers, waggled it slightly. "I don't."

"I thought- I didn't want you to be surprised, or upset," he said, brows furrowed as his eyes roamed continuously over her face. "I know banks are nobody's favorite entities right now, and since this one used to employ you… perhaps you wouldn't want to be here. And since you didn't say anything, I wasn't sure-"

"That I knew? I do now," she said, still holding onto his sleeve. Her head spun, and not just at the thought that her old bank — the bank that had lost every nickel and dime she and Tina had saved — was knocking around, let alone worth buying. Graves had worried about what she thought. Felt.

He'd stepped closer, close enough that the skirt of her dress stirred, brushed his legs.

"Are you trying to talk yourself out of a plus-one, Mr. Graves?"

"No." He licked his lip as he tilted his head, gazing at her; his fingertips grazed her dress. "Please, call me-"

"Graves? Is that you?"

He sucked in a deep breath and turned away in one smooth motion, hands dropping back to his sides from where they'd been raised. Raised to set on her hips, she suspected, but that chance was gone; he was the picture of frosty formality as he stood with his back to her, facing down whoever'd called his name.

Queenie peered around him to see, on the far side of the foyer nearest the doors to the ballroom, a tall light-skinned black woman push an older white gentleman in a wheelchair into the room, partygoers splitting around them like water around a rock.

"Come with me," Graves whispered, holding out his arm.

She took it wordlessly; La Citrouille all over again as he led her forward — everyone watching. But this time they walked side by side, and she was free of embarrassment. There were a number of other emotions swirling around inside her, but not that.

"How unexpected," the woman said once they'd met them halfway and she'd shaken hands with Graves. A trace of a southern accent added an aristocratic touch to her words. "I thought for sure you'd find a last-minute reason not to come. The Holden-Keating gang or Grindelwald or some other emergency only you could handle." Despite her smile, her eyes were narrow and keen.

"Not this time, ma'am. Sir." Whether it was the names themselves or the veiled jab that had caused him to tense, Queenie couldn't guess. The names were recognizable at least: bank robbers, the FBI's Most Wanted. She'd read about them in the paper; Graves had said he was a bank man. Still: emergencies?

Unknowingly interrupting her renewed puzzlement over what his job might be, Graves nodded to her. "Antoine and Seraphina Picquery, Queenie Goldstein. My… my guest."

Setting aside her curiosity for the moment, Queenie smiled broadly at them both. "Charmed." It was hard not to be, looking at the Picquerys. The mister was quiet, a cashmere blanket covering his legs, but with his steel-gray hair, black tuxedo, and his head held high, he looked quite dapper in spite of his very crooked smile. And the missus had a natural grace in the way she rested her hand on his shoulder and angled herself just so to the right of his chair. No wedding bands on either of their hands, though; given their ages and the familial resemblance in their bearing, she'd guess father and daughter.

 _Unless I'm not the only one here with an arrangement_ , she thought.

But Seraphina didn't give off the air of an interloper praying not to get caught, but of someone very much at home in the midst of so much luxury, and in her violet gown, draped turban reminiscent of a crown, she was a regal sight.

When she said so, Picquery's haughty consideration of her lost some of its chill. "Thank you. That was the desired effect."

"If you're not careful the board will take it the wrong way and finally call a vote," Graves muttered, surveying the foyer with its handfuls of whispering people and not seeing as Queenie did how Picquery's expression grew proud.

"Well, I think it looks fab. A gal should be able to wear whatever she wants," Queenie said with an encouraging smile.

"Among other things." Picquery gestured to the ballroom behind her, where people were still bustling in. "Go, enjoy yourselves. Or at least make an effort to pretend," she said, with a pointed look at Graves.

"As you say, Madam President," he said, and, with nods to both Picquerys, he led Queenie to the line feeding into the ballroom.

In the shielding noise of an excited crowd, Queenie asked, "Was that your boss?" When he didn't immediately reply, she continued, "I mean, you hopped to pretty quick. So she's either your ex-"

Graves snorted loudly enough to turn heads. "No," he said in an undertone as they entered the ballroom. "I'm not ambitious enough. And too moody, according to Seraphina." That last tacked on so drily that Queenie knew who'd most recently accused him of being melancholic, no matter that she giggled at the self-deprecating way he'd said it.

"Antoine — her father — is president of the Mutual American Company," he continued, glowering at a group of people who stood directly before the doors, obstructing traffic. "In name only. He had a stroke that nearly killed him."

"That's awful," she said, looking back over her shoulder. As people shifted and parted and drew together again around them, she caught glimpses of Seraphina leaning over Antoine in the foyer, fixing his blanket. "When did it happen?"

"March third." The muscle in his arm flexed beneath her hand, and, though his face was blank as though he hadn't spoken, there was a distance in his eyes.

 _March-_ Considering him closely, she squeezed his arm. No more than a press of her fingers into his sleeve, but his stony expression cracked — his mouth quirked upwards, his eyelashes fluttered downwards, and she had an inkling at last why exactly he'd turned to the personals in the first place.

"Lucky he's got family to look after him," she said, to further test the theory. His murmured agreement and how he pulled his arm — and her by extension — closer to his body sealed the deal.

So much for any family. Filing those tidbits away with the meager rest she'd filled in about his background, Queenie took in the sights around them rather than push for more. She couldn't push all the time.

Besides, there was so much to see once they'd broken free of the swarm. The ballroom itself was immense — it would've been cavernous if not for how well-lit it was. Crystal chandeliers larger than taxi cabs hung from a molded ceiling covered in enough gold leaf to make a new dress for the Statue of Liberty. The dance floor, polished white marble that matched the white walls, was ringed by tables with huge floral centerpieces. Off to her far left, an empty stage waited. To her right, stairs led up to a mezzanine level that wrapped around the room and fed into dozens of balconies overlooking the action. The source of the music filling the air, a jaunty swing standard, was a large orchestra that occupied a number of those balconies.

"It's a real Fourth of July party in here," she said, taking in the royal blue tablecloths, the white flowers, the red velvet curtains hanging down the white colonnades separating the balconies. "Are you sure you read your invitation right?"

He rolled his eyes and snagged a white card from a table's centerpiece as they passed by. _MAC/USA_  it read in gold leaf. "It's deliberate. Picquery's always liked big gestures," he said, flicking it skillfully onto another table.

"Birth of the country, birth of a new company?" At his grunt of agreement, she looked about with a new appreciation for the fanfare apart from the luxury.

And noticed again how people were staring at them as they had in the foyer. Staring and whispering. Talking, more likely, but in the crush it was impossible to make out what they were saying. Every few feet some new tuxedoed man nodded to them — or to Graves specifically — and made some attempt to speak to him, but he was quickly rebuffed as Graves simply ignored him and sped up his pace.

"I thought you were lookin' for somewhere to sit down," Queenie said after the tenth time it had happened. "But you ain't, are you?"

A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he otherwise kept his attention fixed forward.

"What, you afraid someone'll talk to you if you stand still too long?" When his silence took on a guilty air, Queenie shook her head and pulled at his arm. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, herding him along to a table in the nearest corner of the room. "I ain't letting you march me across that waste a second time without a drink first."

Once they reached the table, which seated at least eight but was occupied by only two strange women, Queenie plopped down on an empty chair as Graves remained standing, looking distinctly nervous no matter how he glared about.

"You're scaring the locals," she laughed, indicating the wide-eyed ladies. Sweeping her skirt to one side to keep it from being trod on should anyone dare to get close enough, she took pity on Graves, who had shoved his hands into his pockets and was rather tight-lipped. "How 'bout you get us some champs? I thought I saw some during that whirlwind tour you took me on."

"If I'm cornered by complainers who want to talk policy, I'm blaming you," he grumbled, but he set out to hunt down a waiter all the same.

She watched him cut straight across the dance floor rather than go around until she could no longer make out the silver back of his head, and then she watched the dancers. It wasn't too lively — she'd been right, the party skewed middle-aged — but the orchestra sounded top-notch and it had been ages. Could she convince him? Was there enough champagne in the world?

Perhaps if she offered something in exchange-

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. "Hello," the older woman of the pair said, perching on the chair next to her in a swirl of green silk. "Was that- Is your- I mean to say-"

"Was that Percival Graves?" asked the woman who'd stayed on the opposite side of the table. She had a shrill voice and looked lost in her filmy blue dress with its too-big puffed sleeves. "He never comes to these."

"Yeah, that's him," Queenie said, smiling, confused by how put-out she sounded. "He talked me into coming."

After a brief round of introductions, Paloma Proudfoot remained astounded. " _He_ talked _you_ into- My husband would never believe it. He hates these things," she said, then leaned in conspiratorially. "They — the bank managers — bet on him. So if you get any sour looks, that's why. Cost someone a pretty penny tonight, I'm sure."

"That's only mostly why," Mimi sniffed. "He gives my poor Ezra fits. Always showing up unannounced, telling him everything he's done wrong, expecting him to drop whatever he's doing to fix it."

"Well, he can be direct," she said, smile fond as she searched the crowd anew for some sign of him.

"That's putting it mildly, but that's your job," Paloma said with a knowing grin, completely unaware of the truth of her words. "How did you come by it?"

By the time Graves came back, her audience had grown significantly, a direct result of an incredulous Paloma waving over more and more people she knew. Subsequently, she'd told her Coney Island story three times and regretted it more with every repetition. Her audience, a co-ed mix, hadn't believed a word she said. They weren't even willing to entertain the possibility that it might be true, and where was the fun in that?

"Oh, that's my cue," she said the instant he emerged from the crowd. Without a backward glance for the clutch she'd left on the table — who there would steal anything _she_ had? — she hurried over to him. "What took you so long?"

"More like who," he said, as though that were an answer, eyes narrowing as he stared at the mob behind her that was undoubtedly trying to mentally replace the champagne flutes he bore with candy apples. "Are you alright?"

No cheap fizz that; it went down smooth as she drained her glass in one swallow and handed it back to him. She knew better than to be surprised that any company Graves worked for would spring for the good stuff, but still: it was a treat. They had to be in the last place the prohis would storm. "Do you wanna dance?" she asked instead of explaining or asking him in turn _why don't any of these people like you?_

His eyebrows jerked upwards. "Excuse-"

The music faded out, replaced by a brief drumroll, closely followed by a louder roll of applause that swept across the room. Glancing about, Queenie saw all eyes were on the stage, less than twenty feet away, and Seraphina Picquery upon it.

"Friends and family, new and old," she began, voice ringing out over the room, unaided by a microphone. "Tonight we dare to celebrate success in a time when there is precious little worth celebrating.

"And tonight I'll keep it short, don't worry." There was an edge to her gracious smile as a light-hearted rumble rolled back through the room.

Queenie didn't laugh. Nor did Graves. _The woman I know likes to talk._  As Picquery spoke about forging strength from weakness, future success growing out of past failure, and any number of optimistic business-y things, some of the tension bled away from Graves, and his death-grip eased on the two champagne flutes he held.

"Finally, I'd like to draw special attention to Percival Graves," she said, and held out her flute of champagne towards him. All around them, the crowd seemed to back up a step, whispering and staring as if though expecting a bolt of lightning.

"Oh God," he muttered, shifting his weight as though to flee, but he stilled again as Picquery resumed speaking, more serious than ever.

"For your dedication to service, your tireless effort-"

Her skirt fluttered as Graves inched closer to her.

"-your unwavering support and continuing investment in MACUSA-"

There was a sound of crystal creaking.

"-and for actually being here for a change so I can say all of this publicly." Picquery raised her glass as a laugh, sharp as the cut-crystal that hung from the chandelier, rippled through the crowd around them. She didn't share their amusement; she was almost grim as she said, "We thank you. None of this would've been possible without you."

Graves's acknowledgment of all this was a precise nod, jaw working as though he were grinding his teeth.

"Cheers," Picquery said, her smile as sudden and bright as a spotlight flicking on. She was echoed by the crowd; the only person who didn't raise their glass and drink was Graves.

Even after the orchestra started back up and people resumed milling about, heading for tables or picking up where they'd left off on the dance floor, he remained where he was, champagne undrunk.

It wasn't until Queenie laid her hand upon his wrist that he released the breath he'd been holding and looked up. There was a worrisome pallor to his face despite the warm lights, and his mouth was a thin line of unhappiness.

"D'you wanna leave?" She'd hoped to wring at least one dance out of him, just for curiosity's sake, but it would've been cruel with him looking so miserable. Why was he so bowled over? There hadn't been any trace of real sentiment in Picquery's words; it had sounded more like a performance review from a manager to an employee. Who didn't like it when their boss got up and said nice things about them for everyone to hear? She would've been purring like a cat in the sun if that happened to her.

"No point now," he said, with a slow shake of his head; she dropped her hand. Then he downed his champagne, smoothly placed the empty glasses on the tray of a passing waiter, and offered his hand to her. "Can you foxtrot?"

She let out a disbelieving laugh. "Can you?"

 

As it turned out, he could.

They passed the first two songs in a silence that Queenie found surprisingly comfortable. _Retreat and regroup_ , she'd remembered, and she'd given him a chance to collect himself as they learned each other's dance preferences and skill levels. Unsurprisingly, Graves was stiff at first, but he loosened up, and by the end of the second song she was grinning at him.

"I figured when you said you hate dancing it was 'cause you couldn't," she said as their mid-speed footwork carried them over the floor. "But you're really not bad."

"So glad to hear it," he murmured absently, watching that they didn't bump into anyone else. "My years of etiquette classes are finally paying dividends."

That figured. As in all things, he had a very precise way of moving — graceful, but with an element of deliberation. Practice. She'd initially thought he was rusty, but as a third song started she decided he simply wasn't a natural dancer. Not that it mattered: he didn't step on her toes, he didn't show off with tricky spins or too-quick footwork, and his hands weren't clammy.

Far from it — the one resting between her shoulder blades was smooth and dry as his stationery, light as a soap bubble when he led her into a turn or a change of pace. The other held her hand just as carefully, though his thumb brushed over her skin in a steady back-and-forth.

Too steady. Was he counting his steps?

"What?" A small wrinkle appeared between his brows; he'd stopped frowning at some point and she hadn't noticed.

"Nothing," she said with an innocent look, then repeated herself when his suspicion deepened. "Really. It's nothing. I was just thinking how we should've done this sooner."

His skepticism was replaced by a tidy mask of neutrality — surprise looked a lot like disinterest when he wore it. He always went still when something sudden happened, like a deer in the brush when a twig snapped.

"Hard for random men to bend your ear when you're busy dancing," she elaborated with a giggle. Her mirth vanished when a faint blush rose in his cheeks as he looked past her and voiced a half-hearted agreement.

Had he thought she meant sooner as in before that night? That perhaps instead of going straight to Roarke's or home after, she thought they should've been going dancing instead? The thought had never occurred to her before, yet as she turned it over in her mind she found it appealing. Not only because she loved to dance — she'd danced with dozens of men over the years, not just Jacob, and rarely regretted it — but because she liked the way he felt so close to her.

She didn't have long to savor it; her stomach growled so loudly towards the close of the third song that Graves insisted they leave the floor and get something to eat, leaving her no time to feel mortified.

"It's your fault I'm used to eating earlier, you know," she pretended to scold, and when he ducked his head she knew it was to hide the smile that threatened.

There was no need to leave the ballroom — as Graves had promised, dinner was provided in the form of a buffet, laid out and served against the entrance-side wall. Mostly finger foods like sandwiches, hors d'oeuvres, sweet pastries, with only the different salads and slices of checkerboard cake needing forks.

"This ain't so bad, is it?" she asked, chomping on a carrot and surveying the room as he sat down next to her at the mostly empty table. She'd skipped the heavier foods in favor of fruits and veggies due to the simple fact that her dress, no matter that it was perfect, was a tight fit.

If he noticed her plate was far lighter than usual, he wisely refrained from comment. "I expected worse," he said before taking a careful bite of his sandwich, his knee nudging hers under the table.

"I told you. Dancing keeps them away," she said brightly, purposefully loud enough for the couple on the other side of the table to hear, and grinned at the woman's knowing look.

"I didn't think you danced, Graves," the man said, wiping his mouth with his napkin and ignoring his date's look of warning. "Didn't think you'd come either, busy as you are. Whose branch is it this time needs to be shut down for an overhaul? O'Brien's? Fontaine's?"

Graves took a bite out of his sandwich and looked at Queenie as though to say _see what I've been dealing with?_

Unfazed, she leaned forward, elbow on the table, and smiled broadly at the man. "Ooh, you in the bride's party or the groom's?"

The man looked at her as though shocked she could string a sentence together, but that wasn't anything she hadn't gotten before. "I'm with United Savings. What's left of it, anyway," he grumbled.

"See, I knew you looked familiar." Turning to Graves, she set her hand on his knee. "Didn't I say he did?"

He froze mid-chew; she heard him inhale sharply as she turned back to face the man across the table and ask if he knew Yancy Blishen at Calfax, if Irene Kneedander was still around, and even after she'd revealed she too had worked for USA, that she had met Graves at work — in a manner of speaking — she didn't remove her hand from his knee.

Nor did he ask her to, not even when more people joined them, and Queenie found herself doing her level best to be the center of attention. She laughed the loudest; she smiled the widest; and by default she told the most outlandish stories simply because no one could picture Graves having a life outside of work.

"He's as bad as my sister, I swear," she said to a round of snickers after relating a modified version of her Coney Island lie. "No stomach for roller coasters."

"Picture _you_ being afraid of anything," one bank manager said to him amiably, going so far as to slap him on the back.

Her hand had migrated slightly to press against the inside of his knee; she was already on her feet before he'd finished tensing at the sudden strange contact, and plucked at the hand not holding a glass. "C'mon, mister, it's been long enough. You promised me another dance."

"Better do what the lady says, Graves," said another man as Graves drained his g&t, "you don't want to find out what else there is to fear."

Wry laughter followed them as they left the table, Queenie's hand once again in its customary spot on his arm. It wasn't until they were safe on the dance floor and settled into a familiar set of figures that Graves spoke.

"Thank you." His lips quirked in a here-and-gone smile before he grew more serious, his hand skating over her shoulder blade. "I appreciate what you did back there."

"What d'you mean?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. "I just like to talk."

With her hand on his shoulder, their close proximity, she felt as much as heard him sigh softly as he relaxed incrementally.

 _What else could I have done?_ She was no dummy; he handled small groups of people just fine, but put him in a crowd and something happened to him. His propensity for being alone got the best of him, maybe. She'd seen it in action when he locked right up thanks to Picquery shoving him into the limelight. Keeping him out of it had been the only available course of action, short of hustling him out the door. That was something she very much wanted to avoid because she… she was having fun. If she had to play the role of ex-Ziegfeld girl to keep all eyes on her and off him, then that suited her down to the ground. It came too naturally to be any kind of sacrifice.

"What?" he asked again when she chuckled to herself. "Tell me." His exhalation was warm against her cheek.

"I just remembered your ad, that's all. 'Melancholy man of little humor seeks opposite,'" she explained at his puzzled look. "All those people think you like 'em a bit airy-fairy now."

"Then they weren't paying attention," he said seriously, thumb trailing over the back of her hand before he pulled away when the song ended. They joined the rest of the couples on the dance floor in applauding the orchestra, standing steps apart as they did so.

They'd spent months sitting opposite each other, rarely touching except for when he helped her with her coat or getting in or out of a cab; in the last two days they'd touched more than they ever had. Been closer than ever. But as their elbows brushed, as she smelled how his cologne had settled into something mellower, she couldn't help but wish they were closer still.

After the conductor took his bow and turned back to the orchestra, the song they launched into was far slower and more romantic than earlier numbers had been. Yet when Graves silently held out his hand, she didn't hesitate. Bracelet slipping down, she laid her arm across his shoulders, shivering as his hand skimmed over her back to hover an inch or two lower than it had the rest of the night.

As he led her into a waltz, her eyes wandered down his clean-shaven jaw to his neck, watching as he swallowed before his hand pressed flat against her bare back. Following him into a series of turns, she let her gaze trip further down the front of his body, scant inches away from hers. His black satin bowtie, perfectly tied; the lapels of his waistcoat, almost creamy against the icy white of his shirt; the glint of-

"Mr. Graves," she whispered.

In the periphery, she saw him lick his lip; his voice was a low rumble when he said, "Yes, Miss Goldstein?"

"Why do you have a gun?"

 

There was a second foyer, she discovered, larger than the first. Nestled in the corner of the building, it was mostly empty but for a handful of guests who left when they caught sight of Queenie's face. Away from the noise of the ballroom, at the far end by the windows, it was the perfect place for a private conversation.

"You wanna tell me why you brought a gun to a party?" she asked, arms crossed as she struggled not to stare at his chest. Well, at the place between his arm and his chest where she now knew a gun hung.

Rather than answer directly, Graves rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. "Sadly not to shoot any of the managers who won't leave me alone."

She gaped at him. " _Now_ you grow a sense of humor?"

His hand moved to massaging his forehead before he dropped it with a sigh of resignation. "I told you I'm a bank man-"

Shoulders hunched, she shook her head. "If you're tryin' to say you're _that_ unpopular-"

"Queenie, please." His brown eyes were imploring, and that as much as hearing her name stopped her from carrying on. "I admit I wasn't… forthcoming," he said, his eyes traveling down her body to rest on the soft pleats of her skirt. "My official job title is director of security for- What did Seraphina call it?"

"MACUSA," she mumbled. Security director? She'd thought he worked in an office. What sort of director of anything carried a gun?

When she said so, a trifle bullheaded, he grimaced. "The kind who gets roped into transporting a quarter-million dollars' worth of diamonds across town on a Thursday evening on short notice."

The figure made her gasp, but before she could dwell on the date — _A Thursday? Maybe the same Thursday we'd met, when he'd been so late?_ — he turned away towards the windows. The sight of his hands slipping into his trouser pockets, ruining the line of his tuxedo, reminded her why they were there. Even when he was attempting to be casual, he held himself so carefully. Was that why she still couldn't make out the shape of the gun despite knowing it was there?

"Officially speaking," he continued, "I'm responsible for overseeing the vaults, guards, and general securing of assets company-wide. Between the bank runs in '30 and '31, the mob, every man without a job thinking he's the next Willie Sutton or Herman Lamm… It's more important than ever for a bank to keep its clients' confidence however possible."

Lines delivered effortlessly and without a teaspoon of passion; she wondered how many times he'd had to justify his position. No need to imagine who to — every other guest had been giving him the evil eye.

But they were cowardly whiners, not threats to be taken seriously. Yet Graves had mentioned the mob, gangs — she knew full well how crime had picked up. It didn't take reading the dailies to realize that.

 _Ain't you worried about getting mugged?_ she'd asked him, and he'd patted his jacket and reassured her. Patted his wallet, she'd thought.

"Do you always wear it?" she asked, hugging herself tighter and rubbing one arm. "Like… every time we've-"

"Yes." He bowed his head. "I know you hate to hear this, but it's habit. Banks alone aren't the only targets."

It spooked her. Not just the implication, but the fact that she'd never noticed he was armed. She tried to remember when she might've caught on earlier, but when she thought back it was always the same — Graves in a three-piece suit sitting across from her. He'd never taken his jacket off, not in Bergdorf's nor Roarke's; she'd chalked that up to his being stodgy, though he'd unbuttoned it from time to time. He did have a habit of putting his hands in his pockets which she'd thought nothing of besides how sweetly boyish it made him look at times, but now…

Now she wondered if he didn't do it to keep his jacket hanging just so.

She took a step forward, two, enough that she stood directly before him, and reached out a hand slowly. When he didn't move at all, she tucked it between his arm and his chest, pressing-

There. She could feel it, immoveable the way he never was, the way his dense bicep wasn't against the back of her hand. She'd never have noticed it ordinarily, not unless she embraced him. Forgetting her lipstick, she bit her lip, gazing at his chest, rising and falling faster as she mapped the odd shape of the gun by touch. His jacket was slick beneath her hand.

"I want-" She dropped her hand, clasped them together. "Can I see it?"

It felt like an eternity's worth of consideration, of his dark eyes roaming over her face, looking for God knew what, but his answer came in the form of him undoing the single button that held his jacket closed.

As he held the one side open, she cocked her head, frowning as she puzzled it out. There was a thick black leather strap that went over his shoulder, and a holster close against his body — that had been the shape she'd felt. Even with his jacket open, the gun itself was barely visible except for the butt protruding over the holster, a deadly blue-black glint.

"Your tailor must pitch a fit every time you walk in the door," she said. Over his waistcoat but under his jacket — she couldn't imagine the sort of needlework involved. And the strap came so close to his collar… no wonder he wore so much black.

He snorted. "Better him than strangers." As she pushed aside his jacket to examine his other shoulder, where another thinner strap revealed the whole contraption as a sort of harness, he watched her as closely as he ever had at dinner. "I never meant to alarm you. And you-you must know I'd never-"

"Percival." She laid her hand against his chest, between the lapels of his waistcoat and against the fine cotton of his dress shirt, the fabric warmed by his body. "Honestly, it never crossed my mind," she said, dropping her hand and turning her attention back to the leather strap that wrapped around his shoulder. Better there than his face, full of some raw emotion she couldn't name.

Perhaps if she'd known him better…

She sighed softly, releasing his jacket. "I don't like it, but I get it. I get why you didn't tell me," she said. "But why didn't you tell me about your job, who you work for?" Her words were laden with disappointment, but that didn't stop her from reaching out to him, tracing a finger along his shoulder. Touching him had been a mistake; she couldn't stay mad at him. She'd never been able to keep up her temper the way her sister could.

"I didn't think you'd care," he said, unmoving as her finger skimmed over the edge of his leather strap, scant inches from his throat. "No one's ever expressed any interest in my work except the board of directors. I thought it would bore you."

"What about the rest of it?" she asked. The leather was smooth beneath her finger, well-polished, so unlike the hundred questions running pell-mell through her mind. What had happened to his family? What had pushed him into wearing a gun in the first place? Had his unpopular job made him shy or had he always been that way? Was a security director really so well-paid that he could afford to throw money away on a gal he met through the personals?

There was too much.

She bowed her head. "Why didn't you tell me anything about yourself?"

"What else do you want to know?" he said, unmoving as she trailed her fingers down to his holster, over the narrow front of it to brush the side of his silk waistcoat. "Ask me."

"That ain't fair." She pulled her hand away again, and clenched her fist to keep from reaching out, but failed. Tapped his chest with it instead. "You know it ain't." Her hand uncurled; she could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm, pressed flat to his chest. "You're so tricky. How do I know I'm asking the right questions?"

Swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, he let his jacket fall; his hands brushed up the backs of her bare arms, holding her steady the way he had the night they'd met. When he'd kept her from falling. "You've never asked a wrong one," he said, and kissed her.

She'd kissed her fair share of guys. Some were taller, so she'd had to stand on tip-toe; some, like Jacob, were shorter, so she'd leaned down. Some were sloppy or domineering, all hands like an octopus; some sweet and chaste, as cold as kissing a brother.

Graves was none of those things. He kissed her the same way he did everything else: with deliberation. When his lips fit against hers, when his tongue swept into her mouth, when his hands slid over her arms to her back, pulling her closer, it all happened slowly, as though planned out. As though waiting for her to say _stop_. Even when she clutched at his waistcoat, growing dizzy as he kissed her again and again, he didn't move any faster. One arm wrapped around her, his other hand pushed back her hair to rest against her cheek, holding her in place as he kissed her jaw.

She melted in his arms as his teeth scraped lightly down her neck, her earring swaying, while his hand skated ever lower down her back, until his fingers brushed beneath the edge of her dress and she remembered how little she was wearing under it.

A door slammed; they both froze at the sound of footsteps, whispered laughter, and then heels clicking quickly away.

Face hot, and not just because someone had walked in on them, she took a deep breath. "Let's get a room," she purred, bracelet slipping back down her arm as she draped it over his shoulders and dragged her fingernails up along the smooth nape of his neck. "How about it, Mr. Graves?"

Not once had he ever relaxed, not the way she had, though he'd trembled just the same. "No," he said, peeling his hands off her body. "No, I-" He brushed a knuckle against her cheek as he ducked his head, grimacing, before he looked into her eyes. "This isn't what I pay you for," he said brokenly.

Her eyes widened; she stumbled back, batting his hand aside when he tried again to steady her as he always did. "Why'd you have to say that?" she asked. Too loudly, judging by his wince, but how else could she muffle the sound of her heart plummeting into her stomach. "Why'd you have to make it about money?"

"It's always been about money," he said, briskly buttoning his tuxedo jacket. There was lipstick on his face; he wiped it off his mouth with an unsteady hand. "Our arrangement-"

"I don't want to hear about our 'arrangement,'" she snapped, turning away and chewing her lip as though that would stop her eyes from filling. At some point she'd forgotten entirely that he was paying her to be there. To get all spiffed up, to meet new people, to dance and laugh.

She'd forgotten they weren't like everyone else at the party. That they weren't together.

Her mistake.

Sweeping her hands up her back as though to check her dress was still in its proper place, all she could feel was the lingering sensation of his fingers burning against her bare skin. "I think you should take me home. You- you said you usually only stayed two hours, and we're way past that."

He nodded and wordlessly offered her his handkerchief.

It took all her control not to snatch it out of his hand, but she managed it, and dabbed carefully at her eyes. "Wouldn't want you to be ashamed to be seen with me," she said, forcing a smile. There wasn't much strength behind it; it wavered when their fingers brushed as he took back his kerchief.

"I don't know how you could ever think that," he said, quietly enough that she could pretend not to hear him as she walked away, not waiting for him to catch up.

 

They didn't speak again until the car pulled up in front of her apartment building. To her dismay, Graves helped her out as usual, and she found herself holding tight to his hand as he walked her up the steps to the front door.

"Will I see you on Monday?" she asked, same as she always did. Of course, she'd never been so clearly on the edge of tears; maybe that was why he looked away, down the pothole-riddled street.

"Monday's the fourth," he said, releasing her hand to dig into his jacket pocket.

"I know, but-" She backed up against the door as he held out a narrow brown envelope. Fifties? A pair of hundreds? "I don't want it," she said, before she could get any curiouser, clutching her fur stole closer. Hadn't he given her enough?

"We had an agreement." His hand was steady even when she pushed it away.

 _Had_ , some part of her noted. _We_ had _an agreement._ "Please, honey, I..." She blinked hard. No, she wasn't going to cry in front of him again. Not a third time. "I had a lovely night," she whispered. "Please don't ruin it. Donate it to a soup kitchen or somethin' instead."

He bowed his head, hand clenching around the envelope, crumpling the paper, before he tucked it back into his pocket. Next to his gun.

"Tuesday, then?" She couldn't help herself. She hoped Tina wasn't still up and watching through the window, it was bad enough the hired driver was sitting in the idling car with his eyes so deliberately pointed forward. "Since Monday's a holiday and all," she said, catching his arm before he turned to leave.

He hesitated, one step down from her. "Good night, Miss Goldstein."

A strange numbness settled on her as she turned and went inside rather than watch him drive off, and it followed her all the way up the six flights of stairs and into the apartment.

"So much for being home early," Tina laughed from the tiny kitchen table, where she sat with a glass of milk and her book. "Did you have fun?"

Nearly finished, Queenie noted absently as she hung her stole from the coat rack and slipped off her shoes, tossed her clutch on the table. "Yeah."

Tina's good humor faded into a puzzled look as Queenie went to the fridge and stared into it blindly.

 _He didn't say_ yes, Tuesday, _like he usually did,_ she thought. _But he didn't say_ no _either._

 _But he didn't say_ yes _._

"Are you- Oh my God," Tina gasped; there was a thump of her book falling against the table. "Your earrings!"

"Huh?" Queenie stood upright, the fridge door knocking gently against her side as she touched her ear, the diamond and tourmaline pendant cold and swinging. "I-I forgot my earrings," she whispered. Then, her breathing growing shallow and unsteady: "I forgot my earrings in his car."

Tina was on her feet before she started to cry.

 

"I'm gonna break it off with him," Queenie announced Monday in a voice as sunny as the afternoon weather in Central Park. "That's my new plan. I think it would be for the best."

Tina, licking her chocolate ice cream, gave her a dubious look.

At that first sign of doubt, her determination faltered. "What?" she pushed, fidgeting with her spoon. "You were always sayin' there was something weird about hi- about the whole setup."

" _I_ think it would be for the best," Tina agreed, "but I don't think _you_ think it would be for the best."

Frowning, Queenie ate a partially melted spoonful of vanilla ice cream. She'd spent Sunday feeling hungover, never mind that she'd only had a few glasses of champagne the night before, and she hadn't gotten out of bed before noon. When she'd finally emerged, it had been to drink cold coffee and pick through the Saturday paper, where the first mention of a Grindelwald heist in Indiana had reminded her of Graves and sent her back into a mope.

Without a job to go to or errands to run, chores to take care of or groceries to buy, she hadn't really seen the point of doing much else but wallow. The soup kitchen had more than enough paid staff after a sudden windfall, they didn't need her volunteering. She wasn't important. She'd complained that Graves hadn't told her anything about himself, but what had she shared? What did she have?

She had her sister, who coaxed her out of the house with the lure of ice cream and the latest info about the rare animals showing up in Harlem. She had almost two grand in fives in a pair of shoeboxes under her bed. She had a diamond bracelet.

It felt like very little. Less than she'd had on Friday, anyway.

"I dunno. You were right about the money making a mess out of everything," she said, stirring her vanilla soup. "Why I thought it wouldn't matter…"

"Because you're you," Tina said with a philosophical slurp of her ice cream before she launched into her best Queenie impression. "'Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome never tells me nothin', but he sure does love to splash out the cash, and I love a good mystery. Absolutely nothing can go wrong, you'll see!'"

Queenie sniffed. "Your Betty Boop needs a lotta work."

The look Tina gave her was scathing, but it softened with another lick of her ice cream. "Face it, kiddo: you've got too much heart. I told you as much."

"Gee, thanks for waitin' so long to say 'I told you so.'" Queenie shot her a look before she set her bowl of glop aside and slumped back against the tree they were sitting under. "A whole day-and-a-half," she muttered, staring out across the lawn at the couples and families enjoying the holiday sunshine.

What was Graves doing? She couldn't picture him strolling about, basking in the summer weather. No, he was probably inside somewhere the sun wouldn't get him, working.

 _Or brooding,_ she thought, and remembered with a twinge how he'd sat alone in Bergdorf's, solemn and so alone.

"Only because I care." Tina went back to her ice cream as Queenie silently tortured herself with vague imaginings until the silence between them became too heavy with unspoken sentiment. "You're not a gold-digger," Tina said, considering her waffle cone. "If he hasn't realized that…" She took a cracking bite that made Queenie snort. Her sister had never been subtle.

"I don't think that was the problem," she said. No need to tell Tina about the two hundred dollars she'd turned down — she'd told her everything in the kitchen that night, between sobs and cups of tea.

Almost everything. She hadn't told her about the gun, or how Graves's hands had felt on her body. A girl had to keep some things to — and for — herself.

"I think he thought he was my boss," she said slowly, shredding a couple of blades of grass as she remembered for the hundredth time how torn he'd been when she suggested they get a room. He'd kissed her like he'd been thinking about it for ages, like he'd only get one chance and he couldn't miss it, but when she'd suggested they take things further, he'd balked. _This isn't what I pay you for_. She'd taken it as rejection, but what if-

What if…

"To be fair, he was paying you," Tina said between bites of her cone. "By definition that makes him your employer."

Painful though it was, she couldn't help but agree. "I don't know if he'll ever stop seeing himself that way. He's so… responsible." Quite an understatement when she thought about what he did for a living.

"Do you want him to?" Tina asked with a casualness belied by how closely she watched her.

"Yeah." Queenie tossed aside her fistful of grass and brushed her hand against her skirt. "But I don't think he can, and I-I'm not gonna waste my time waiting for him to figure himself out," she said with a renewed determination. When Jacob had dumped her, she'd been crushed but she'd moved on eventually. What did she really have with Graves to move on from? Three months of sporadic dinners, a single date that wasn't a date?

She could get over it. She would get over it.

It wasn't until Tina'd polished off the last bit of her cone that she said, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but maybe talk to this guy first before you make any hard-and-fast decisions. That can be your new plan."

"My big sis, the genius," Queenie said as she picked up a piece of torn grass and threw it at her.

 

She'd thought success or failure depended on how her talk with Graves went on Tuesday night, but as she sat alone at their usual table at Roarke's, staring past his empty seat to watch the rain pour down on the street outside, she realized she'd thought wrong.

 _No need to reply, your presence — or lack thereof — will be answer enough_ , he'd written to her once. He was twenty minutes late — not as late as he'd been the night they'd met, but he'd never left her hanging since then. Every second that passed made her all the more anxious, more sure showing up had been a mistake, and the drink she'd ordered did nothing to settle her nerves.

 _He hadn't said yes_ , she thought again. _Just good night. Had he really meant 'goodbye?'_

It didn't make sense, didn't mesh with the Graves she'd come to know. He'd seen how upset she'd been when she'd been stood up — he wasn't the most straightforward man alive, but when she thought about how he'd gone out of his way to make things up to her, how appalled he'd been when he realized the damage he'd done to her accidentally… No. Surely he wouldn't be so cruel.

Or would he? A mouthful of her g&t couldn't wash away the doubts. She'd amused him for months, she'd been a much-needed distraction at his work function — hadn't he gotten what he wanted out of her? Not sex, but attention. And maybe now he didn't need it anymore. It was easy to toss someone aside when you knew you'd never see them again unless you made the effort; when would she ever see him? She had no idea where his office was, where he lived.

All she knew of his schedule was dinner at Roarke's most nights at seven o'clock. When he was going to be late, or when he wasn't going to show up at all, he called ahead. He'd always called after that first time.

"He ain't called or- or sent a message or nothing?" She twisted around in her seat to face Sam, in his usual spot off to the side of the room.

"No, miss," he said, sharing a glance with his twin, who made a quiet exit. "Mr. Perschky would've said. Red can check-"

"No, it's okay. I'm sure you're right." She gave him a quick smile, then sat facing straight, eyes on her glass. "I'm sure he's just… running late."

Except the longer she waited the more convinced she became that he wasn't late, he wasn't coming, and she'd been wrong. About him, about what she meant to him. She stared at his empty chair and couldn't remember the lines she'd so carefully practiced in her head while riding the train. A whole speech meant to convince him that she didn't want any more money out of him, that she wanted to see him for real.

Couldn't remember what she'd been going to say, but she could remember how he'd felt when she'd pressed up against him. How his breath had felt against her neck, his fingers brushing up along her spine as they danced.

"Stupid," she muttered, tossing back her drink. Men like him didn't marry women like her. They paid them for their company, but they didn't marry them. They married society-types, their equals. Seraphinas.

Not their opposites. Not blonde Betty Boops.

"Miss?" Sam stepped forward, offering her a scrap of paper instead of a menu. His twin stood behind him, looking distinctly pink-faced under his host of freckles. "Red just checked and- there's a note for you, miss. From Mr. Graves. It slipped under some menus."

"Oh?" She couldn't take it. A hundred emotions surged through her like a storm swell; she covered her hand with her mouth, feeling seasick. Should've had water instead of gin. "Well, what's it say?" she asked, trying for cheerful and failing, judging by Sam's concerned look.

"It, uh-" he cleared his throat, then looked down at the paper, tracing a finger under the words as he read, "'Mr. Graves regrets he cannot join you presently, and requests you meet him at the Plaza Hotel.'"

"He regrets?" she said incredulously. "He ain't sorry?"

"Uh…" Sam skimmed the note a second time, lips moving; shook his head. "Just that. And the bit about the Plaza."

Chewing her lip, Queenie considered her options. Maybe he'd just gotten tied up, what with the busy weekend, Monday being a holiday. Or maybe he- No, it was out of the question that he'd have her schlep over to the Plaza just so he could end things. Not when he could've done it at the restaurant. It was plenty public.

"Did he…" she turned her empty glass around and around on the table in lieu of wringing her hands. "Did he say where at the Plaza he wanted to meet?" At Sam's head-shake, she sighed. Typical. Knowing him, she could walk up to the front desk, mention his name, and she'd be whisked up to the penthouse suite for a round of champagne, caviar, and silk sheets.

Despite her seesawing emotions, she had to admit it was an appealing notion. Almost as appealing as the chance to give him a piece of her mind, and she hadn't once passed on that yet.

 

"I'm startin' to feel like I live here," she murmured to herself as the cab pulled up to the curb outside the front of the Plaza Hotel. Across the way was the park, and just around the corner somewhere was Bergdorf's, and really, would it have been so bad to live there?

 _Probably not_ , she thought as a uniformed man got her door and helped her out. The red carpet that fed up the stairs to the brass revolving door made her feel self-consciously fancy, and that feeling only grew as she entered the foyer and headed for the lobby.

The ballroom had been very much in the style of the rest of the hotel, she saw at once as she made her way to the vast mahogany desk. Was Graves making some sort of statement? It was possible she'd been wrong; wouldn't be the first time she'd leaped to conclusions. The wrong conclusions.

"I'm supposed to meet a- a friend here," she said when the hotel employee asked how he could help her. "I think he has a room? He didn't give me a number, but he'd be checked in under Graves. Percival Graves."

"No one's checked in under that name tonight, miss, but I'll check earlier reservations," he said, scurrying off and leaving her at the desk.

It was the restaurant all over again, but this time she was the one who was late.

 _He'll forgive me_ , she thought as her excitement grew in fits and starts. _He'll love the irony._ Even as she clenched her gloved hands in an effort to stop their trembling, she couldn't help the nervous smile she gave the blond man waiting behind her. "Sorry, I'm just-"

"Quite alright," he said with an elegant nod. "I don't mind the wait. All good things and such."

She was about to compliment his accent when the hotel employee cleared his throat. "Hi, yeah, sorry."

"Mr. Graves did not check in, but he did leave this for you," he said, sliding a box towards her across the desk before he held out a pen and a slim receipt book. "Sign here, please."

Olive green, square and slim — she felt faint as she signed. "He didn't- That's it? There ain't a message?" She was sure she'd asked that question more times than was dignified that night; all the starch had thoroughly gone out of her as the clerk shook his head. Worrying her lip, she took the box to one of the chairs scattered throughout the lobby.

It didn't rattle when she gave it a slight shake, but the suede was as soft as she remembered once she'd tugged her gloves off. Glancing around, she wondered if he was lurking somewhere watching her, but there was no sign of him. Just the man leaning against the desk, and a few other guests on their way in and out. No one she recognized.

But she did recognize the earrings inside the box when she snapped it open. Her pearls, the ones she'd forgotten, resting on the black velvet where Graves had set them. The wave of disappointment that rolled over her threatened to drown her. Why go through so much effort just to toy with her?

She nearly didn't bother with the folded note that was taped to the inside of the lid. It was just a scrap of paper, no larger than what would come off a secretary's scratch pad, and that certainly wasn't enough for him to explain himself.

But if she didn't look, didn't give him a chance, she'd regret it.

Sniffing hard, she peeled the note free from the box and unfolded it.

 

_We have Percival Graves. If you wish to ensure his safe return, prepare $500,000 in non-sequential ten- and twenty-dollar bills. Delivery instructions will follow in two days._

_If you alert the police or the FBI an obituary will follow instead._

 

_Cordially,_

_G. Grindelwald_

_P.S. Apologies, Miss Goldstein, for the interruption of your dinner plans._


	4. Chapter 4

"God damn it," Picquery muttered, as though wishing to say something much stronger as she reread the letter. "I never thought to check in when he didn't show up for the morning meeting. He's never absent unless it's for a good reason. When did you get this?"

"A couple of hours ago," Queenie said, glancing at her sister sitting beside her, who nodded and squeezed her hand encouragingly. In an unsteady voice, she related to Picquery the plain course of the evening's events — how Graves hadn't turned up for dinner, the note to go the Plaza. Calling her sister, thankfully at home instead of walking the beat in Harlem; it had been Tina who'd told her to look up Picquery in the phone book, something that should've occurred to her but hadn't.

No need to recount their conversation. Picquery had sent cars over for both of them.

"What I don't get is why have me be the one to get the ransom letter," Queenie wondered aloud. "And why the Plaza? Why not just send it straight to you? Or to the bank?" _Why have me run all over town chasing after a ghost?_ Goosebumps broke out over her entire body at the word before she could banish it from her mind. She refused to consider it a possibility.

"That might've been the simplest way to control everything," Tina said, coolly professional as she continued, "It's convenient, you being at a certain place at a certain time. Way better than trusting the mail or a courier or the phone, where one nosy operator could give the game away. He could've found out from Graves, either by following him or..." She swallowed and left other methods unspoken. "If you usually eat privately, he wouldn't have been able to see you get it. A hotel lobby is full of strangers — you'd never notice him if he were there watching you pick it up. Who knows? Maybe he just wanted to see what happened."

She couldn't decide what was more horrible: Tina's blunt logic or the idea that Grindelwald had been there, enjoying the sight of her falling apart. "So you think- It's really real?" she asked as Picquery began to pace the length of the office, still staring at the ransom note. It'd never occurred to Queenie to doubt Grindelwald had written it — those fanciful loops were nothing like Graves's handwriting. But the amount... "Five hundred grand, that's-"

Picquery shook her head, turning to her father, who sat in his wheelchair beside the couch. "Grindelwald has us over a barrel and he knows it. If it gets out the head of security was kidnapped it'll kill MACUSA in the crib. No one will ever invest. But the insurance won't pay out until after-"

"Insurance?" Tina blurted out.

Queenie grimaced. She couldn't act surprised that they'd thought ahead, not when she recalled in vivid detail the gun Graves had been carrying. _Banks alone aren't the only targets_.

 _Well, it didn't do him any good after all_ , she thought before guilt bowed her head.

Picquery paid no attention to her, continuing, "And we're not liquid enough, not in two days."

Antoine raised a leathery hand; his daughter fell silent at once. "Pull from accounts," he said with a frown owed as much to the seriousness of what he was saying as the effort involved in saying it. "Pay from MetLife."

"Whose?" Picquery asked, note crumpled in her hand. "Everything we have is tied up in the buyout. If I go to any of the board members they'll talk, and before you know it it'll be all over the papers."

"Graves's," Antoine said flatly before he rang the small bell that rested in his lap. As a nurse came to see him out, his crooked mouth twisted into a clumsy smile he aimed at Queenie. Then his face hardened again as he was turned around. "Pay it," he said over his shoulder to Seraphina.

The only sound for long minutes were the floorboards in the penthouse apartment creaking as he was wheeled away, but Queenie heard something else: her heart. It hadn't stopped pounding since she'd first read the note; in fact it had picked up speed with each objection Picquery raised.

Picquery tugged at the belt of her black house dress and collapsed with a blustering sigh into a chair behind the large oak desk that dominated the room. "God damn Grindelwald," she said to herself, staring blindly up at the ceiling and still clutching the note. "Percival will have a fit if we pay him."

"But you will, won't you?" When she'd first seen the amount, Queenie had burst into tears. Where would she get that kind of cash? It wasn't until she'd been on the hotel phone with her sister that she'd seen her error. Of course the note wasn't really meant for her, she was just the messenger. Still, that was no true reassurance. Nothing short of seeing Graves alive and well again would reassure her.

"Of course," Picquery said, tossing the crinkled note onto the desk to drum her fingers on the chair arms. "He'll complain I set a bad precedent, but the ramifications if I don't…"

"Because of his job?" Queenie asked, struggling to think in such unsentimental terms as Picquery so obviously did. Not once had she expressed concern over Graves's wellbeing. It reminded her of Picquery's speech at the party, how oddly free of emotion it had seemed to her.

"Because he's their wealthiest customer," Tina said slowly. She was watching Picquery closely, Queenie saw, with a deep cynicism.

"What?" Queenie looked from her sister to Picquery, who'd lowered her chin to her chest to stare at Tina. "He ain't, is he?"

"Almost. His grandfather was a silent partner." Picquery's lips twitched. "Fourteen percent."

A number of pieces clicked into place, one right after the other. Antoine's assertion that Graves had enough in his account to cover the ransom completely; Picquery's speech at the party, thanking him for his investment; Graves's belief he might be targeted; his reluctance to share anything about himself related to work or his family, and what had that woman at the party said? That he was always popping in randomly to scare the living daylights out of the managers?

She'd thought he was just paranoid as a result of his job, but could it have been more than that? Might he have kept quiet about his schedule in an attempt to prevent people from predicting where he'd be at any given time? Even their dinners hadn't been on a regular basis for the first couple of months or so. Muggings and robberies hadn't been the only crimes on the rise — kidnappings, too, and the memory of how poorly things had gone for the Lindbergh family was the main reason she hadn't gone to the cops.

Hopefully her sister didn't count in this instance.

"He never told you." Picquery's tone suggested she too had realized something.

 _You ain't a Rockefeller but you ain't hurting neither._ "No," Queenie whispered, pulling away from Tina to bury her face in her hands. "I never asked where it all came from. I asked about everything else, but not that."

"No wonder he liked you. He hated his money, all the attention it brought, the social obligations," Picquery said with a roll of her eyes.

It should have been Graves explaining this to her, not some stranger she'd met once before. Too easily, she could imagine his sardonic tone as he described the invitations he'd made a habit of ignoring, the society women whose company he'd spent a lifetime avoiding. The shyness that would creep into his face when she asked him what had changed.

_Do you want me to guess?_

_I'm afraid you would_ , he'd say with some fondness. He liked it when she played detective.

"Of course he'd look outside his usual set for someone who appreciated the illusion that he worked for a living rather than ask why he bothered," Picquery continued, oblivious to the fresh tears that had gathered in Queenie's eyes

She wiped briskly at her damp cheeks and raised her head. "Please don't talk about him like he's already gone," she said, fishing her handkerchief out of her handbag while Tina squeezed her shoulder. "He ain't."

Picquery pursed her lips, but after a hard second she ceded the point with a tip of her head. "Nothing else can be done until morning," she said, getting to her feet and reaching for the telephone. "You'll stay here tonight, and I'll arrange for-"

"No." After a belated moment, Tina tacked on, "Thanks. No offense, but we can look after ourselves. And you said it yourself — Grindelwald knows about her."

"Teenie, maybe that's why it would be a good idea to stay," Queenie whispered to her. "For like… safety reasons." Not that it made a difference.

Tina just squeezed her shoulder before continuing, sterner than before, "Mr. Graves is obviously worth a lot to you and your bank, but my sister isn't, and she's done enough." She got to her feet, tugging at Queenie's arm until she followed.

"Very well." Picquery dropped the receiver back in the cradle, and instead snatched up a pen and scrap piece of paper. "Here is the number for my office," she said, scribbling it down and rounding the desk with a _swish_ of silk. The fold in the paper was razor-sharp when she held it out to Queenie. "Call when you're settled. Graves would be irritated if I let anything happen to you," she said with a smile, but her hooded eyes were intent.

Queenie didn't hesitate; she took the paper gladly and hurried after her sister, waiting impatiently by the office door. "If there's anything else I can do-"

"C'mon," Tina said, and without a backward glance marched her down the hall to the penthouse's lobby and private elevator. She didn't relax until they were standing in the building's foyer, waiting for a cab.

"So where're we goin'? Home?" Queenie asked, not minding when Tina sagged beside her.

"No," she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. "He might've cased the place. God, I didn't really think this through. I just didn't want you staying there with that woman."

"She's not that bad," Queenie said with a wince. "Sure, she's kinda… practical, but-"

"She's more than 'kinda' practical, kiddo." There was a lot of know-it-all older sister condescension in Tina's head-shake. "A born politician. Nah, we're better off out from under her thumb. But where…"

Thinking back on the last hour, Queenie couldn't find it in herself to defend Picquery any more than she already had. "If you're so sure it ain't safe to go home until this blows over," she said, "then I got an idea where we could go instead."

 

"If it's too much of a hassle-"

"Nah." Jacob waved a hand as he took her carpet bag, leading the way up the narrow apartment stairs. "Course not," he said with a familiar grin, "Loads of space."

That grin used to turn her knees to jelly, but all Queenie felt was fleeting reassurance. "Thanks, honey. We really appreciate it. Don't we?" she called to Tina, who nodded reluctantly.

"Yeah, real great of you," she said, eyeing each door they passed with some wariness, shifting the strap of her bag further up her shoulder. She'd insisted on carrying it herself.

The Kowalskis' apartment was a lot larger than she'd expected, certainly bigger than their own two-room hole in the wall; it didn't feel too crowded when Jacob set Queenie's bag down beside the squashy blue couch. "It ain't the Ritz, but there's hot water, and if you're determined not to take our room then you can flip to see who gets the couch and who gets Simon's bed…"

Jacob carried on pointing out common household items that were at their disposal with the nervousness of a first-time host, but Queenie barely paid attention. Simon Kowalski, Jacob's little boy. He'd be two or three, she guessed. How time flew. Watching Jacob try to convince Tina to stay for lunch, she wondered that he didn't look any different from how she remembered him. Maybe he had a handful more worry lines, but his hair was dark as ever, and his smile was just as quick. Like the crash hadn't happened at all for him. Like it hadn't been the reason they hadn't-

"Did you hear me?" There was worry in Tina's eyes as she repeated herself, "I've gotta get to work. Are you going to be okay here?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," Queenie said, kissing her cheek before she could notice how her smile faltered. "Really. Don't worry."

"She's in good hands," Jacob said, getting the door for Tina. "Here, I'll walk you down."

The moment the door shut behind them, Queenie sank onto the couch, her face in her hands.

There'd never been any question in her mind of who to call. They'd gotten a room at a cheap hotel for the night, popped into their apartment in the wee hours to pack a couple of bags in record time, and she'd called Kowalski's Baked Goods as soon as the hour was decent, surprised when Jacob answered the phone. It had been like old times as they made small-talk, though it had stung unexpectedly to hear him talk about his wife, off visiting family in Queens, and she'd been more evasive than ever when she told him how things on her end were going. Too evasive, apparently — he'd known from the off something was wrong.

"You in some kinda trouble?" he'd asked. "There anything I can do?" Same old Jacob, always ready to help. It had been a relief to accept, just like it had been a relief when he'd helped them move across town to the Lower East Side. She'd seen him a scant number of times since then; with him newly married, trying to keep his business afloat, she'd thought it best for both of them. Tina had been right — times were tough, and he'd do anything for her. She didn't want to take advantage of him.

 _Except when I really have to_ , she thought, getting down on her knees to shove a brown bag full of money under his son's bed. Hopefully nobody would notice it there, hidden amongst all the toys and mismatched socks.

Was Tina saying as much? She couldn't imagine what had been discussed when Jacob returned, solemn-faced, and found her looking at his son's clumsy drawings, tacked up on the bedroom wall. Dourness didn't look right on him, not like it did on Graves. At least it faded quickly.

"I have to get back to the store, but I promised your sister I'd keep you in sight at all times," he said apologetically. "D'you wanna… come with?" he asked with a jerk of his thumb at the bakery that was a few blocks away. "Grab somethin' to eat on the way?"

"I'd love to," she said, then glanced back at the room. It was a little messy, but cozy. Not unlike the room she'd shared growing up, though with a noticeable lack of pink, and with way more model airplanes. Had Graves had a room like this as a boy? Had his father made him a mobile of biplanes to hang from the ceiling? She couldn't picture it. If only she could ask him.

If only he were around to ask.

"Your wife really don't mind us staying over?" she asked as she left the room.

"Nah, of course not." He shrugged a shoulder, shutting the door behind her. "You're my friend."

 

It was surreal to be in the kitchen with Jacob. She'd daydreamed about it back when she was at United Savings, surrounded by paperwork. How she'd knead dough elbow-to-elbow with him or mix up frosting and hold out her finger with a dollop for him to sample. It would've been nice.

It was still nice. But it wasn't the same. She peeled apples in an out-of-the-way corner as Jacob and his assistant discussed tomorrow's bakes, the day's deliveries, estimates for the rest of the week. Their back-and-forth rolled over her, calming as bathwater, the ovens' heat lulling her, but it didn't make lighten her mood any. As a single curling strip of peel grew before her knife, all she could think about was how much she wished Graves was there with her.

The thought of him in a kitchen seemed ridiculous at first, but no more than the thought of him anywhere else — at a party or in a women's clothing store. In a tux on the Lower East Side. He hadn't really fit in anywhere; not just 'cause of his manner, so aloof, but because of his looks. He stood out.

As she watched Jacob separate dough for sweet rolls, she tried to imagine Graves doing the same. A stretch to picture him with his jacket off, his shirt sleeves folded up — he'd leave his waistcoat on even under an apron, she was sure — let alone doing something so domestic. Perhaps if she taught him; that was easier. He'd stand close by, watching carefully the way he always did while she chattered on. About the different types of dough, why they had to let it rise, what sorts of fillings they could use, and when she asked which he wanted he'd try to deflect the question.

 _Oh no, buster, not this time,_ she'd say, poking him in the chest playfully. _Fess up. Are you an apple pie man or a berry? Or maybe lemon, since you're such a sourpuss_.

His eyes would crinkle, though his mouth would remain a flat line, as he brushed flour from her cheek with his thumb. _You can't guess?_

She couldn't, and as she dunked her freshly-peeled apple in a bowl of lemon juice, she sighed to think she might not get the chance.

That thought — that she might never see him again, talk to him again, tease him or grill him again — haunted her. It kept her quiet when she typically would've talked to anyone around; it made every smile an effort instead of instinct. When she and her sister had dinner with the Kowalskis, Mildred achingly polite, Simon kicking his feet after scrambling up unassisted onto a chair, all she could think about was how Graves had never mentioned his family. Except to reveal where his money came from, Picquery hadn't either — hadn't once said she'd have to tell them about what happened.

 _He doesn't have any._ He didn't have anyone who cared about him — besides her. Had he- _did_ he want a family? It occurred to her, watching Mildred laugh at one of Jacob's jokes before pinching his cheek, that she'd never asked. He hadn't wanted a girlfriend or a wife, or so he'd said after their first dinner, but the way he'd looked at her at the party, held her… kissed her… surely that had changed. And if that had changed-

"Are you okay?" Tina whispered to her as she reached for the salt shaker.

Queenie blinked. While everyone else made stilted conversation, she'd been staring at her peas, wishing she were at Roarke's.

 _We'd still be sampling wines,_ she thought with a glance at the clock over on the mantle. _Graves would be waiting for me to pick something. What would go with roast beef and veggies? Something red, that's a given, but-_

The clumsy scrape of steel against porcelain knocked her out of her maudlin dreaming. Simon, diligently skewering a green pea on each fork tine, sat staring at her raptly.

Would Graves have wanted a son? Someone to carry on his family legacy? Picquery had mentioned his shares, his accounts — who would get them if he died?

"I'm okay," she lied, eating a forkful of peas and smiling when Simon copied her.

 

The second day felt like a hellish repeat of the first. Picquery had given her nothing in the way of information, just vague reassurances that she was getting the money together.

"If this gets out I'll lose my job," she'd said. Queenie had wanted to snap back that she wasn't the only person who stood to lose something, but she didn't have it in her.

She didn't have much energy for anything but worrying. As though sensing the ransom wasn't ready, Grindelwald hadn't gotten in touch yet. What did that mean for Graves? Her night had been spent tossing and turning on the couch, unable to sleep — had he slept? Had they let him? She'd been up before dawn, brewing coffee while Jacob made pancakes — did Graves have breakfast? Did they feed him at all?

"Ow," she hissed. A large drop of blood welled up from her thumbpad; she stuck her thumb in her mouth, eyes prickling. The bowl of pitted cherries before her grew blurry.

"You okay?" Jacob shuffled a couple of loaves of bread around in the brick oven before he shut the door, set the wooden peel against the wall, and hustled over, mopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "Nick yourself?"

She nodded, sucking her thumb hard for an instant before she looked at it. Barely a mark. "I just wasn't paying attention. Silly."

"You got a lot on your mind," he said, wiping his hands on his apron before he touched her hand lightly, turning it to examine her thumb. "Look, already stopped bleeding." His hands were rougher than Graves's. Drier.

She swallowed. "I'm gonna go help Mildred. I don't wanna mess anything up back here for you." Before he could object, she dropped the small knife on the tabletop and fled the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.

It was way cooler in the front of the store, despite being full of mid-morning customers. They took little note of her as she sidled behind the counter where Mildred was bagging up a dozen paczki.

"And two- no, three of the strawberry cream cheese turnovers," the old woman said before Mildred could roll the end of the paper bag down.

"I'll get them," Queenie said softly when Mildred let out a sigh fueled by too many last-minute requests.

They worked in silence: Queenie fetched and bagged; Mildred handled the cash; Jacob darted in with fresh bread or pastries and was constantly stopped by chatty neighbors. The same community gossip over and over, and whenever Jacob started to look a bit glazed his wife dramatically cleared her throat and jerked her head at the back, giving him an excuse to make his escape. Time went quickly; before she knew it they were through the lunch rush. Things had died down to a lull when Mildred turned to her.

"We survived," she said with a smirk that was equal parts proud and surprised. "You know how to work a register?"

She nodded.

"Good. I'm going to put my feet up for a couple of minutes and check that my hubby hasn't stuck his head in the oven. Need anything, call," Mildred tossed over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen.

 _It ain't such a bad job,_ Queenie thought as she rang up some cookies for a mother and daughter. Business seemed to be good, the people were nice, the food sweet. She should've gone to Jacob back when Abernathy had canned her; if she hadn't been so embarrassed, so determined to make it on her own, it would've occurred to her. He would've said yes, she knew he would've.

And if he had, she never would've met Graves. She wouldn't be in the mess she was now.

"Anything else?" she asked the latest customer as she bagged up one of the loaves of rye.

The man shook his head and set his folded-up newspaper on the counter as he dug out his wallet. He fumbled his coins; she took the opportunity to sneak a glance at the front page while he and another customer picked money up off the floor. She hadn't read a paper since Tuesday, and she found she missed it.

Below the fold it was all political doings, FDR's latest campaign pledges, but when she flipped it over just for a quick peek, she couldn't understand what she was seeing.

**_MILLIONAIRE'S MORGUE_ **

_Body found in Park Avenue penthouse_

The last thing she saw was Graves's photo beneath the headline, dour and handsome even in black-and-white. She hit the floor a good deal quieter than all those nickels and dimes had.

 

"Here, drink this," Jacob said, holding out a glass of something that looked too clear to be water.

She'd been right to be suspicious; it burned all the way down, and it didn't matter how hard she pressed her fist to her mouth, she couldn't stop coughing.

_Spoiled with too much quality booze. I used to be able to handle anything._

Still, it was better than sobbing.

Handing the glass back to Jacob, she sat down on an empty crate in the back alley, covering her face with her hands. If she'd bothered to read any of the article, she would've seen that it hadn't been Graves a maid had found shot dead in that Lenox Hill apartment, but some thug, Edison Krall.

The _Daily News_ described him as _a recent escapee from Illinois State Penitentiary, Eddie Krall was a known associate of the infamous bank robber Gellert Grindelwald_. In the time it had taken her to stop crying, Jacob had sent his assistant out to buy a copy of the rag. He'd read the entire piece to her in the shade of the back alley while Mildred held down the fort because Queenie couldn't bear to read it herself, convinced beyond reason it was the obituary Grindelwald had promised.

"I'm gonna call Tina," Jacob said when she didn't stir.

"No, don't." Scrubbing her hands over her face, she sat up. Did she look as wretched as she felt? Judging by the concerned way Jacob shifted, paper rolled up tight in his hands, she figured yes. "I don't want her to worry any more than she already is," she said.

"I'm worried for the bunch of us," he said with a nervous look up and down the alley before he dragged over another crate and sat down on it, huddling close. "This what you're mixed up in?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, wringing her hands. "I don't know what to say. I don't want to put you or your family in danger."

"Tina said…" he scratched the back of his neck, unrolling the paper. "She told me the wrong kinda guy noticed you, and you needed a place to hide out for a couple of days. Is this who she meant? This Percival Graves character?"

"No!" Anger popped like a firecracker in her chest at the implication, shocking and nearly welcome after days of fear and sadness. And it faded away just as quick at Jacob's alarm. "No, that ain't it at all," she said quieter, and there was nothing for it but to explain. The ransom note, why Grindelwald might've known about her in the first place, and before she knew it she'd told him everything, the whole shebang.

"And now I dunno what to do," she said fretfully, twisting his handkerchief around and around in a damp cable. She'd started crying again when she'd recounted the last time she'd seen Graves, though thankfully not so much as before. "I've taken nothin' but wrong turns."

"Well, take enough lefts and you end up going right again eventually," Jacob said, wincing as soon as the trite words left his lips. "You know what I mean."

"I guess," she said, untwisting the kerchief, then whispered, "I feel like I'm goin' crazy."

"That's 'cause you care so much. If you didn't, it wouldn't be so bad," Jacob said, leaning forward to lay a tentative hand on her shoulder. "This guy's lucky to have someone like you to care about him."

Looking into Jacob's eyes, Queenie thought about how all she'd wanted once was to be alone with Jacob, to have him talk nicely to her, listen to her, comfort her. It had never been tough to picture his kind face, even his uncertain smile as he got down on one knee. But none of that had happened, and for the first time she was struck by how okay with that she was.

She'd been so disappointed for so long that he'd ditched her, chalked it up to Mildred being better-off than most, compared every man she'd met afterwards to him, and that had been unfair of her. Mildred might've had cash, but there was no buying the real affection Queenie'd seen between her and Jacob. How silly of her to think feelings — real feelings — could ever be faked in exchange for a buck or two.

 _I hope I'm not the only one who understands that_ , she thought as she stared into Jacob's shiny brown eyes and wished they were someone else's.

Her voice was tremulous, but her smile held as she said, "And I'm real lucky to have a-a friend like you, Jacob Kowalski."

Predictably, he blushed, but he didn't stiffen when she hugged him, and what awkwardness there was between them was because they were still sitting on too-short wooden boxes and their knees knocked together.

"Thanks, honey."

"Any time, Queenie," he said, patting her back. "Any time."

 

The phone started to ring at ten to seven.

Queenie's breath caught. She hadn't called Picquery since that morning, reasoning it was best to leave her alone, though deep down she didn't want to know what had happened. If the lurid newspaper coverage had led to Grindelwald calling it off or asking for more money or- God, she hadn't wanted to know. She hated living in limbo, but she hadn't wanted to know things could get worse.

"Uh huh, she's right here," Mildred said, pulling the cord out of Simon's hands before she offered the receiver to Queenie. "It's for you. Miss Picquery."

Not risking a glance at Jacob in case her composure cracked, she cleared her dry throat and took the phone. "Hello?"

"Miss Goldstein. Grindelwald has made contact," Picquery said, not wasting any time. "The money is secure."

The plastic handset creaked in her grip. "Oh," she breathed. "Not- The newspaper didn't-"

Picquery's sigh, rich with disgust, crackled down the line. "No. His sole comment was that he found it amusing to see someone else's name instead of his own tied to Krall's murder, as he'd always expected."

"You spoke to him?" No cops and no FBI, he'd said, but it hadn't been their fault the papers had gotten wind of strange doings. Not that that had stopped her from fretting Grindelwald would take it as proof they'd squealed. "What's he sound like?" she blurted out.

"To be frank, he's a smarmy son of a bitch," Picquery said, spitting out something in French before she collected herself. "A European accent. Faint. But that's not why I called."

"Right." Tina's suggestion that Grindelwald might've been there in the Plaza with her had stuck, but she couldn't recall talking to anyone there except the hotel employees. "Why did you call? If you got the cash, and he gave you a time to meet..."

"He did. Grand Central Terminal at 8:30 tonight. Once he has the ransom, he'll release Graves."

Cradling the receiver close, she sagged against the wall for support as relief spread through her. "That's good news, ain't it?" she asked, sparing a cautious smile for the worried Kowalskis. "It sounds easy enough. Do you think I could-"

"Grindelwald has asked-"

The front door banged open before an exhausted Tina. "Ugh, what a day," she said, wiping her shoes off on the front mat. "Remember all those animals I kept finding? Psychic birds, lion cubs. Well, I finally nabbed the guy — some Brit with a suitcase. I caught him trying to…" She trailed off as she took in the room, expression turning grim in seconds.

"Sorry, Miss Picquery, my sister just got back," Queenie said flatly, staring into Tina's eyes. "I don't think I heard you right. Did you say Grindelwald wants _me_ to deliver the ransom?"

 

"This is a terrible idea," Tina said again for the hundredth time. "This is the worst idea I've heard all day, and I had a guy argue with me that his monkey was entitled to see _Grand Hotel_ because it had a ticket." She'd started shaking her head the second she'd heard Grindelwald's latest demands and she hadn't stopped.

"You keep doing that and your head is gonna pop right off your neck," Queenie said, checking a passing street sign to see where they were at.

Tina's glower would've turned Graves to stone. "How can you possibly make jokes at a time like this?"

34th. "Eh." A strange calm had come over her when she'd agreed to meet with Picquery; for the first time in days — weeks, really — her emotions weren't being swirled about in a blender along with every worst case scenario she'd been able to pour into the mix. That mess had been replaced by a determination that braced her as much as holding her sister's hand did.

The rest of the cab ride to the Waldorf-Astoria was punctuated solely by Tina's frequently mutterings to herself and periodic squeezes of her hand.

As Queenie strode into yet another hotel she'd never dreamed of setting foot in and scanned around for someone she knew, she was grateful her sister kept her objections to herself. She wasn't sure her nerves could take it.

"Over there," Tina said, discreetly pointing to a figure sitting in an armchair tucked in a corner.

Picquery wasn't alone — two men stood silent guard on either side of her, one obscured by a large potted fern. And she looked ready to travel, judging by the equally impressive brown leather suitcases bracketing her chair.

"You know, I wasn't entirely sure you'd come," she said when they reached her.

"Course I did." There was an empty chair across from her; neither Queenie nor Tina took it.

Lit from the side by a Tiffany lamp, Picquery's features looked sharper than ever, more catlike, as she regarded Queenie in silence. Satisfied by whatever she saw, she knocked her toe against one of the suitcases, startling both sisters.

"Two suitcases, as requested, each holding $250,000, also as requested," she said with no more emotion than if she'd called the Brooklyn Bridge a long walk. "You're to take them to Grand Central Terminal, check them as baggage at the east desk, and wait to the west of the information desk at 8:30."

"That's it?" It sounded too straight-forward, and after Grindelwald had her run around from Point A to Point B for no good reason, she was disinclined to trust him. "Am I supposed to wait for someone to talk to me or-"

"That's all he said." Her eyes flicked to Tina at her side. "Besides that you go alone."

"No way," Tina said, crossing her arms. "I'm not letting her go to the busiest place in all of Manhattan with that kind of money to meet up with some criminal nutcase. Try again."

Picquery's face took on a sphinx-like stoniness as the gorillas on either side of her shifted. "Miss Goldstein-"

"Teenie, listen." Queenie rested a hand on her forearm, hoping to avert disaster. "I bet these suitcases weigh a ton. How about you help me carry 'em? We'll grab a taxi, and then you can wait outside for me. He didn't say anything about that, did he?" she asked Picquery, fingers crossed.

A slow blink before she tipped her head in acknowledgment. "No. He did not."

"Then it's settled." Not waiting for her sister to agree, she reached for one of the suitcases, nervous energy slicking her palm with sweat. It didn't help much with the weight. "I thought it would be heavier," she said with a quick grin, hefting the case to get a better grip on the handle. When Tina still didn't move, her smile disappeared. "Please, Teenie. It's five after eight. We've gotta get going."

With a last glare at Picquery, Tina sighed and reached for the other suitcase. "Alright. I know how you hate to be late."

 

Her calm had lasted until the cabbie heaved the suitcases into the trunk.

 _What if we're late?_ she thought, practically vibrating with anxiety. It was just seven blocks, they could've walked it. And then, with any luck, someone would've mugged them. No, cabbing it had been the right choice.

That didn't stop a hundred more what-ifs from breeding, scurrying through her mind like rats through tenement walls. _What if Grindelwald decides he wants more money? Or doesn't show up? What if he doesn't follow through on his end? What if he killed Graves already, back in the penthouse, and-_

"Hey."

She startled when Tina jostled her. "Yeah?"

"We're here."

Lost in her own thoughts, the last few blocks had flown by. But tipping the cabbie reminded her of something almost wholly unrelated.

"Tina, I left a bag of cash under Simon's bed," she said as they carried the suitcases closer to the entrance, out of the way of traffic. "It's- There's kinda a lot. Like way over a grand."

Bemused, Tina shifted the suitcase from one hand to another, clearly as unwilling as Queenie was to set it down lest some passerby snatch it. "It'll still be there waiting for you, nobody in that family's gonna bother it."

"That's what I mean." Queenie chewed her lip, wondering how to avoid sending Tina into a tailspin. "I want you to give some of it to Jacob and Mildred for me. If anything-" she grabbed Tina's arm when she began shaking her head again. "Look, I'm just bein' sensible. Like you."

"You're being an idiot," Tina snapped, but her eyes were glistening in the dusky half-light, and she covered Queenie's hand with her own. "You can give it to them yourself. Tell them it's an investment, say Graves gave you the idea or something." Her lips twitched when Queenie laughed, but it was too short-lived to be called a smile. "Everything's going to work out. It always does for you, sooner or later."

Releasing her arm, Queenie reached instead for the suitcase she held. As soon as she tugged it away from her, Tina enveloped her in a hug.

"Love you, kiddo," she whispered to her, kissing her as gently on the cheek as she squeezed her hard.

"Love you, Teenie." Tempting not to pull away, but she was too aware of the seconds passing by, and what she might miss out on if she stayed out there, where it was safe. "I have to-"

"I know," Tina said, releasing her and scrubbing a hand over her face. "If you're not back in this spot at 9:05 I'm coming in after you, and I brought my gun."

"God, you remind me of him." Giggling, Queenie began the slow walk away, weighed down by half a million dollars and the knowledge that she might not see either person she cared about again.

 

The clock mounted over the central information desk had four opalescent faces, and all of them said it was 8:28. Suitcases checked, round metal token clutched in one hand, she'd circled the desk, mind a blank. Which side was west? Was it towards the balcony? Or the ticket counters?

If she weren't on the right side, would Grindelwald be so cruel as to ignore her? Consider the deal off?

Turning the token around and around, she glanced at the clock again before she hurried more to the right. Lexington was over that way, she was sure of it, and if she were facing 42nd Street… Was she?

8:29.

"Oh God," she muttered. Saturday night meant Grand Central was slightly less busy than usual; there was a line at every wicket at the information desk, and if she'd asked for directions at the luggage check she couldn't remember.

The man standing a few feet to her right, closer to the staircase leading up to the balcony, wasn't busy reading a paper or even holding a suitcase; he was just standing there, waiting like so many other people, and he didn't look half as unfriendly.

She rushed over to him. "Excuse me, hi. Is this the west…" she trailed off as she took in the white-blond hair beneath his dark fedora, his pale face, the black coat that was too big for him. "You. You were at the Plaza," she said with dawning horror.

"We meet again," Gellert Grindelwald said, inclining his head in an elegant motion. "Miss Goldstein, I presume?" His accent, a slight hiss that added more texture to her last name than she was used to hearing outside of the Lower East Side, was as instantly recognizable to her as his face.

 _He was right there behind me_ , came the distant thought. _If I tell Tina she was right I'll never hear the end of it._

"Where is he?" she asked, closing in on him despite all her instincts telling her to run the other way. Nothing about the way he looked at her, like a kid with a magnifying glass tracking an ant, promised anything good. "Tell me where he is."

"Mr. Graves is safe, I assure you," he said. "For now." He did not back away.

She refused to fall apart in front of him a second time. Hand shaking, she held out the token. "I did what you said. Take it and let him go."

"What, no more questions? You didn't hesitate to ask a few at the Plaza." His moue of disappointment could've been genuine, but she had a hard time believing he ever felt real emotion. Not with those cold eyes, as heartless as the berg that sank the Titanic. "Mr. Graves led me to believe you were very observant. Quite the little amateur detective. The pearls were his idea, you know. Thought you'd grasp the authenticity of my enterprise at a glance with those," he said, reaching out to flick her pendant earrings and send her flinching back. "Don't you want your Sherlock Holmes moment, your grand chance to interrogate me and put all the pieces together? Unravel my motives or-"

"You're a liar," she hissed, shoving the token into his chest. "Graves doesn't talk to anyone. He barely talks to me."

"Perhaps then your methods have not been as persuasive as mine," he said, wrapping one hand around hers, grip tightening like a bear trap as he visibly considered her body. "Though I find that hard to believe."

It took effort, but she jerked out of his grasp and stumbled back, heart racing. What he might've done to Graves to get him to talk, to grab him in the first place; what he could've been doing to him for the last few days; what he'd put _her_ through in the meantime — it all melted together into a fiery contempt the likes of which she'd never experienced before in her entire life. With it came the nearly overwhelming urge to smack the smug look off his face. She'd never met a man more deserving of a punch to the nose; every man who'd ever disrespected her, talked down to her or groped her, paled in comparison.

And the way he stared her down, head tipped back as if daring her, inflamed her temper more.

Tina wouldn't have been able to resist the challenge. _Bam_ , right hook to the jaw. She was sure of it.

But Tina didn't have something to lose the way she did.

"I don't wanna ask you anything," she said, one hand clutching her bag tight in an effort to regain control of herself. "I don't wanna know anything about you. All I want is him back." She stared past Grindelwald towards the ceiling, the fake stars swimming briefly as she blinked back tears. "Please," she said when she'd managed it, her voice quavering over the single word.

Grindelwald, smirking, repeatedly tossed the token up into the air and caught it as he watched ignorant commuters rush by. The large ruby ring on his hand flashed with the motion. "Only because you asked politely," he said at last, pocketing the token and slipping his coat off. "It's so nice to meet an American who cares about manners." Holding the coat out to her, he gave it a shake when she didn't accept it immediately. "So you cannot compare me to Mr. Graves, whose family acquired its wealth by taking without giving anything in return."

She snatched the coat away from him. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"

His laugh was like a junkyard dog's bark at night — sharp and full of warning. "Good evening, Miss Goldstein," he said, then, whistling, strolled past her. Carving through the crowd, never once looking back, he circled the desk and was swiftly out of sight.

There was no question where he was going; she ought to follow him, she could grab her sister and point him out, call the cops-

Any notion of chasing him down vanished like a water droplet on a hot skillet when she made the mistake of looking down at the gabardine coat she held.

There was stitching around the collar. Dark red — crimson, really — and it was around the pocket flaps as well; when she gathered the raincoat close and pushed her face against the white silk interior, she could make out the chilly smell of Graves's cologne lurking under Grindelwald's woodier scent.

The first chime of the clock made her jump as it rolled through the hall, tolling out nine o'clock. And she was still alone. Tina was waiting for her, might barge in any minute and cause a commotion. Still, she couldn't bring herself to walk any faster. Hugging the coat, she peered hopelessly at every face that passed her by. Every one belonged to a stranger in a rush to get somewhere else, to see someone else; nobody paid any attention to her or spared her so much as a glance. Being invisible, it turned out, was immeasurably worse than having all eyes fixed on her.

All she wanted was one particular set. Was that too much to ask?

Hadn't she called Grindelwald a liar? Maybe he'd never meant to release Graves after all. Maybe the coat was all she'd get.

 _I don't want more clothes_ , she thought, _I want him_ , before she burst into tears, not caring if Grindelwald was still lurking about somewhere, soaking up her misery like an evil sponge.

Sobbing, she hurried blindly through the concourse. She'd gotten all turned around; which way was east? Where was her sister? Where could Graves be? Grindelwald never said where he'd be released; maybe she'd walked right by him. Maybe he was on a train.

 _Maybe he's not in here,_ a hopeful voice suggested. _Maybe he's outside, maybe he's with-_

She collided with someone before she could finish the thought. Staggering back, arms tight around the raincoat, she gasped. A bolt of terror struck her; for a moment, she was sure she'd run straight into Grindelwald again.

"You really should pay closer attention to where you're going," Graves slurred as he caught her by the shoulders. More to rebalance himself than her; he wavered on his feet, and didn't straighten until she dropped the coat and grabbed him by the vest. His suit jacket was gone, as was his holster, and his face was battered, both eyes black. "You're going to run someone over someday."

Her laugh was brief and shaky before she kissed him hard, tasting blood. Sweeter than any of the expensive wines they'd shared, she didn't mind it at all. Especially not when he wrapped his arms around her like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver and kissed her back, messy and reflexive the way he never was.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Queenie," he said after, panting as she carefully cupped his face and kissed the part of his cheek that wasn't swollen. He didn't smell half as good as his coat did, but she didn't mind that either. "I was detained. You know how the trains are."

"It's alright." She brushed the tip of her nose against his, smiling as she wiped fresh blood off his chin from his split lip. "I forgive you. This time." Even letting him go enough to scoop the coat up off the floor was torture, but she managed it. "My sister might not though," she said as she helped him into his coat, wincing when he did. "She's waitin' outside for me. Probably fit to be tied by now."

"Wonderful, another angry Goldstein woman," he said with gritted teeth as he tugged his coat straight, hiding his bloody shirt. "I have such good luck with them."

Giggling, she kissed his bloody temple and took his hand. "Don't worry," she said as he leaned against her, lacing his fingers between hers, "first impressions ain't everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be lying if I said I expected the enthusiastic response this fic has received. Thank you all very much! The last chapter, an epilogue, will be posted on Saturday.


	5. Epilogue

Graves was late.

It came as no surprise — Queenie had seen him that morning at police headquarters shortly after she'd reviewed her statement. He'd told her he had a packed day between dealing with the prosecutors; the bank's board of directors; outstanding paperwork. Yet despite knowing he was wrapped up in nothing more exciting than bureaucracy, she couldn't help but worry. In the days since his release, she'd found it difficult to do much else. Had he eaten anything for lunch? Was he getting enough sleep? The dark circles around his eyes were nothing to judge by, not when a broken nose had put them there.

_Does his nose still hurt?_

"Miss, are you alright? Is there anything I can get you?"

She inhaled sharply at Albert's sudden appearance at her side. "Y-yeah, I'm fine, Mr. P. Just- You know." She wasn't sure how believable her smile was, but at least she could manage one. "Waiting. He warned me. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Albert nodded, flicking his fingers to summon a waiter. "Perhaps a drink? I find the time always passes quicker with libation close at hand." A touch to her arm as he murmured, "Never fear. He'll be along," before he left.

Her smile was gone as soon as he was, and the g&t that materialized before her did nothing to restore it. Albert was right, but that didn't stop her nerves from fizzing like the tonic water in her glass. She'd asked for a seat downstairs when she'd arrived, thinking to distract herself with people-watching while she waited. Certainly the corner table gave her a commanding view of the surrounding room and front entrance, nothing she could complain about there. Yet at every dull bang of the door opening, each new voice, she perked up only to be disappointed, and the dining room may as well have been empty for all the attention she paid other diners. None of them were Graves.

_What if his car broke down?_

_Then he'd cab it over,_ said the reasonable voice in her head that sounded so much like Tina. _You know full well he has no problem hailing a taxi._

_What if he's sitting in a jail cell? What if they decided to charge him after all?_

_Oh please, as if someone loaded like him would ever see the inside of The Tombs. His fancy lawyer would have him out quicker than you can say 'bail.'_

_What if Grindelwald-_

_Don't you dare finish that thought._

She'd finished her drink in the meantime and was contemplating a refill when the front door swung open. There was a low murmur instead of the usual boisterous greeting, and Queenie knew who it was without needing to stretch her neck.

"This is turning into a habit with you," she said with a scrunch of her nose that belied her real happiness at the sight of him, whole and unharmed. "What happened to callin' ahead, huh?"

"Getting across town took longer than I expected," Graves said after he'd rounded the table and apologized. Rather than take a seat, however, he hovered behind her, his hand resting on the back of her chair as he considered the rest of the room with an interest that was far more guarded than her own had been.

"I'm gonna get a kink in my neck if you stay there all night." When the line of his mouth grew firmer still as he inspected the chair opposite her with a chary eye, the teasing note in her voice disappeared as she asked, quieter, "D'you wanna go upstairs instead?"

His eyes darted briefly to her face before the front door opened again, and he tensed as a group of four came laughing in, his hand tightening on her chair back.

That was all the answer she needed. "Alright, up we go," she said, nudging her chair back so he'd get the hint; his manners kicked in at once and she found her hand in his as he helped her to her feet. "Sorry for bouncing all over the place, Mr. Perschky."

"Never mind, never mind." Radiating cordiality, Albert proceeded to the stairs, Queenie leading a silent Graves by the hand, Sam and Red tagging faithfully after.

"What a parade," she muttered to Graves.

He snorted, but he didn't tug his hand away. Not until they'd reached their usual table, and he pushed her chair in rather than let Sam do it like usual. "I know you wanted to eat downstairs," he said in a gruff voice as Red passed them menus.

She ignored hers to study him openly. The swelling was gone, as was his fat lip, but his pale face was a mottled collection of bruises, largely in sickly shades of green and yellow with the exception of some lingering purple around his eyes. Many of his cuts had healed to little more than red lines, though the stitches over his left eyebrow were still prominent, as was the nasty cut over his cheekbone.

 _I should've punched Grindelwald when I had the chance_ , she thought again, not for the last time. _Given him a taste of his own medicine._

"It's so noisy down there," she said, rather than agree or, worse yet, point out how jumpy he'd been. "I guess I'm used to eating up here now." After a moment's hesitation, she extended her hand to reach across the table, pleased when he took it. "Way nicer to be- Well, _mostly_ alone," she said with a wink.

He squeezed her hand gently as he gazed at it, his thumb sweeping back and forth over her knuckles. "I... prefer it that way. I hope you understand," he said with a quirk of his eyebrows.

 _I came to like dining alone with you_ , she figured he'd meant to say at Bergdorf's. _Maybe_ being _alone with you_ , but she wouldn't get greedy. It was enough to know he still wanted to see her.

"What I don't understand is what took you so long," she said, saucy as she pulled away and went back to her menu. "I thought I was gonna see something in the papers tomorrow about you being locked up in The Tombs."

Judging by how he paled before lifting his own menu, the joke was a swing and a miss. "No, the DA was more than willing to dismiss the case," he said. "A Tammany man looking at the end of his term, and with their presidential candidate out? Even without your statement, your sister's, Seraphina's, the ransom note, the simple fact that Krall was a prison escapee…" He shrugged. "They don't want to lose my deep pockets."

"If you say so," she said, watching him carefully over the edge of her menu. His color came back as he explained the agreement his lawyer had come to with the DA; it all sounded iron-clad to her civilian ears, but still, she wondered. Maybe being accused of murder didn't bother him, but… _The Tombs_.

She'd never asked what Grindelwald and his thugs had done to him over the days they'd held him hostage, nor where they'd kept him, and he'd never volunteered any details. There were clues if she were willing to look, but, to her shame, she wasn't. _I don't wanna ask, I don't wanna know_. But if Graves wanted to tell her, that was a different story.

And so far he seemed entirely unwilling.

"If it ain't that-"

"It isn't," he said, setting his menu down and clasping his hands together atop it. "And you can tell Tina to stop worrying. In fact, she should expect to be promoted soon." His expression was altogether _too_ disinterested.

Tina had been shut up in an office with two detectives for far longer than Queenie had been, and given her red face when she finally emerged Queenie had suspected she'd gotten a real thrashing. "Failure to report," she'd muttered as they'd waited for Graves. "Among other things."

Queenie had naturally relayed to Graves her worries that they'd can Tina, as she did nearly everything over dinner, and he'd rolled his eyes but said little else. She oughtn't be surprised he'd put in a good word for her sister, but she was.

"Is that what took you so long? Passing out bribes? If you're trying to win over my sister, you're goin' about it all wrong." Her smile was Cheshire Cat-sly when Sam came to take their orders, and he blushed at the sight of it and fumbled his pencil, clearing his throat at Graves's steady look.

"Bribing a public official is incredibly illegal," he said, sipping his water after relaying his selections to Sam. "Campaign donations, on the other hand, are not."

She was still needling him over how long it could take to write a check when Albert came up for the usual song and dance with the wine, leaving her with some time to consider what else he might've been held up by.

 _Getting across town_ , he'd mentioned.

 _So he wasn't in Midtown already_ , she thought, sampling the second wine on offer tonight. A 1902 Chambertin Grand. Too fruity.

When she pointed both out to Graves, all she got in return was a narrow look. "Correct. The Nuits-Saint-Georges," he said to Albert, who gave her a happy smile as he poured out proper-sized glasses of the far more expensive wine before leaving.

"There's no way you were comin' from work, " she said, shaking out her napkin as their salads arrived. "You wouldn't be in such a good mood," she tacked on before popping a crouton in her mouth.

"Am I really?" Muttered, but his eyes crinkled fondly as he dug into his food.

"Happy as a clam at high tide," she said with extra folksy twang, and he proved her point by snickering. Graves snickering. It made her coy. "At least gimme a hint. Is it the board? Did they change their mind about keeping Miss Picquery on 'til you gave them a look?"

"I won't ask how you know they voted in her favor in the first place-"

"It was all over the _Wall Street Journal_ ," she said, skewering a cherry tomato with her fork. "Along with the Dow. Still kinda low, huh?"

The way his eyebrows quirked was enough to tell her how much of an understatement that was. "No, I wasn't delayed by business. And no, I won't give you any hints. I'll tell you after dinner."

"You're a tease, Mr. Graves." No matter how she pouted and fluttered her eyelashes, he wouldn't cave. It didn't help that he stared straight down at his plate so he didn't see any of it, lips twitching as he struggled not to smile. "Fine! I'll just keep guessing," she said after silence that felt like it went on forever and really only lasted a minute or two.

He might've tried for stern and forbidding, but it didn't work. Nor did he verbally discourage her.

By the time their entrees arrived she'd thoroughly exhausted every plausible avenue. If it wasn't work, and it wasn't legal, and it wasn't financial — it had leaked to the papers how MetLife had coughed up the insurance payout on Monday, the largest in history for a kidnapping — then she had no idea what it could be besides personal.

"I ain't got a clue what you get up to when you ain't at work or with me," she said. Despite her best efforts, despair crept into her voice. "Were you out feedin' the ducks? Tryin' out for the Yankees? Gamblin' with mobsters? Visiting your secret twin?" She spared Red a smile as he cleared away her empty plate before she squinted at Graves. "You out tomcatting around with other girls?"

He rolled his eyes as he wiped up the last bit of sauce on his plate with a final piece of crusty white bread. "'Other girls,'" he muttered. "Thinking I was performing magic tricks at a children's party was closer to the truth."

"Percival the Prestidigitator." Nothing could stop her grin as he gazed unblinking at her. "What? I like it. I'd see your show."

"Is this your way of getting back at me for being late? Torturing me with impossibilities?" His words were emotionless, but the softness in his eyes had yet to fade as he ordered them dessert and after-dinner drinks.

"No obvious questions I already know the answers to," she said, finishing her wine, conscious of his attention like a silk shawl sliding over bare shoulders. "That was the rule. Has anything I've suggested been obvious? No. Now, it's after dinner. Time to spill."

Leaning back in his chair, jacket unbuttoned though still hanging so as to conceal the holster she knew he must've been wearing, Graves visibly weighed his options. "No."

"No- What?" Her incredulity lasted as long as it took Graves to cover his mouth with a hand and look away, and then she seized the opportunity to throw her napkin at him. "You dirty liar, you said you'd tell me after dinner. Dessert ain't dinner. Fess up already!"

His hand curled into a fist, and, when he tapped his knuckles against his lip, she knew already what his answer would be before he gave it. "No."

"Please?" Again she batted her eyelashes, tilted her head to a coquettish angle. "Pretty please with a cherry on top?" Even he couldn't be totally immune, especially not when she caught her lip between her teeth.

He went very still as he stared at her, and she noticed, not for the first time, how broad he looked sprawled back in his chair. Not just his shoulders — and having seen him in a tuxedo, she knew how little padding they needed — but his entire well-built frame. He gave the impression of healthy solidness. There may have been bruises scattered over his body to match the ones on his face, but he never gave any sign of discomfort. Not even as he sat up, leaned forward, and reached for her hand.

"I…" Looking down at her hand, he turned it gently over, his thumb tickling as it skimmed against her palm. "Will show you. After dessert."

She let out a little shriek as a grin skipped across his face like a stone over a lake. A zing went through her at the sight, and it was that rather than frustration that drove her to pressing her forehead to the tabletop. He smiled so rarely; she wasn't used to it.

 

Rather than remain silent in a grand demonstration of patient expectation for whatever it was he was going to show her, Queenie peppered him relentlessly with guesses.

"You bought the Brooklyn zoo," she said. No matter that they were headed in the opposite direction, it was worth it to see bemusement knit his eyebrows before he shook his head. Might as well go all in.

The moment he said he'd show her, she'd been convinced that he'd bought something. Guessing what was obviously beyond her, but she kept at it because if she stopped talking for very long then she'd start thinking instead. Thinking led to hoping, and she couldn't afford to hope. Not where Graves was concerned. No, better to keep occupied and enjoy his company, his solemn humor in the face of her growing ridiculousness.

She didn't run out of stupid guesses until they were firmly in the Upper West Side, with the river sparkling to their left and Jersey beyond. "You ain't moving out of Manhattan, are you?"

For the first time, he didn't immediately dismiss her question. "Do you think I could?" came his slow response. A question instead of an answer, nothing unusual there, but even that was an answer in its own way.

So no. Gazing out over the water, she frowned. "I dunno. When I saw those newspaper snaps of Krall lying on the floor of your apartment, I nearly had a heart attack." Shivering, grip tight on her bag, she shifted away from the door and closer to Graves; her knee pressed against his. "I can't imagine livin' somewhere somebody died."

His throat clicked as he swallowed.

"It's a big city though," she said, striving to sound positive. "Plenty of nice places to live. Not Park Avenue nice, but nice."

His agreement was muted; was she right? Normally he let her know somehow or other when she'd hit the mark. This time… nothing.

As she looked out at Riverside Park, she couldn't help but think she had to be warm at the very least. That feeling only increased when they pulled up to a stately apartment building in the high 80s, where a uniformed man got the door for them.

"Ritzy," she said, looking around the lobby. A man at the door, another at the desk, a third in the golden elevator. "Very ritzy."

In the past, Graves would have either shrugged or grunted some agreement; in the elevator car, standing close to her, he remained silent. He didn't say anything at all until they disembarked at the eighth floor and he drew out a set of keys.

"So you did get a new place?" she asked as he unlocked the front door and she stuck her head around the jamb as soon as it was open. "Oh, that's so exciting. I'll have to…" The words _make you a housewarming present_ died unspoken as she looked down the long hall.

There wasn't a stick of furniture in sight. As she wandered quietly through the apartment, Graves flicking on lights as he followed her, she discovered that the place was empty. The kitchen had a gas stove and a shiny refrigerator, but there wasn't any food in it, and the stove didn't have a single speck of grease or dirt.

It was a little eerie at first, going room to room and finding nothing at all. Not a rug, not a chair, not even wallpaper, while Graves played at being her faithful shadow. In the odd light of the apartment, the last rays of sunlight filtering through the large rectangular windows that were in seemingly every room, the yellow electric light from the frosted glass mounts scattered overhead, her imagination began to work.

"How many rooms are there?" she asked, turning around in what had to be a bedroom, judging by its two closets and ensuite bathroom. The walls here, as they'd prove to be throughout the unit, were white. The bathroom, too, was white, but its mosaic tiles boasted a pattern of black rosettes picked out on the floor. It was a room she'd covet despite the lack of tub. She was so tired of sharing one glorified outhouse with the rest of the floor.

"Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen," Graves rattled off from where he leaned against the doorframe.

If she closed her eyes, she could picture a bed against that wall, curtains over the window, a chair in that corner with a standing lamp for reading. Maybe in blue, or better yet green. The lingering smell of fresh paint in the unmoving air made it difficult to decide. When he pushed himself up straight by an elbow after she passed him, a painter somewhere must've let out a breath he'd been holding — Graves's black sleeve didn't sport so much as a gray smudge.

Across the hall she found another tiny foyer and the second bathroom, this time with a claw-footed tub big enough to hold her and Tina at the same time.

"Yes?" Graves returned her skeptical look in spades.

"Nothin'," she said innocently, turning back to the tub and tapping her chin with a finger before she looked over her shoulder at him. "Just tryin' to decide if you could fit in there with company or not."

Despite the blush that touched his cheeks, he stood up straighter as her eyes roved down his body.

"Maybe without all those clothes on," she said with a wink before she moved on to what proved to be the second bedroom. Here at last was some furniture in the form of built-in bookcases nestled in both interior corners. Cherry, she thought, to match the parquet that floored every major living space with a flawless herringbone pattern where they hadn't been tiled first.

"This would be perfect for an office." A corner room, it had two exterior walls and two windows, one facing the river and the other the street. Plenty of light, space; rather than an office, she imagined a work table, a place for a sewing machine. A dressmaker's dummy on a stand over there, some racks to hang different projects, organize her fabrics-

 _There'd still be room for a bed,_ she thought absently. _I could take this room, and Tina could take the other one. She always preferred showers, and she could paint the whole thing whatever color_ she _wanted for a change._

Yet with Graves lurking behind her, she wondered what it would be like to live with someone who wasn't her sister. Would he want his own room? Or would he want to share, and give her the room to do with it whatever she wanted? It took no effort at all to imagine him relaxing in a comfortable chair opposite her, maybe reading articles in the evening paper out loud — with extremely dry commentary — as she worked on some embroidery or cut fabric for a new pattern.

The room could be done up in red brocade wallpaper. He wouldn't say no to a stately red.

"I have an office," he said from the hall, interrupting her thoughts. "The last thing I need is another one."

"A library then. Don't tell me you don't read," she called back, grinning as he bowed his head. Besides the bookcases, the wide ledges formed at some of the windows by the covered radiators were perfect for extra shelves. Books, framed photos, little potted plants, or maybe just a phonograph or radio.

Did Graves have any of that? No family, but surely he had one or two photos he'd put up somewhere. Maybe a college degree, some inherited art. Didn't all the swells collect art? There were a lot of empty walls in the place that needed filling. Unless he'd leave them empty. She never would.

"Do you like it?" Graves asked as she drifted out into the dim living room. There wasn't an overhead light to switch on, nor a lamp.

"I think it's tops." The windows overlooking the park were the only source of direct light in a room that was bigger than her shared apartment. Bigger even than the Kowalskis' place, which had previously seemed spacious. "The size- I wouldn't know what to do with it all. I guess that's what you're used to," she said with a wry smile. Taking in the sight of the river beyond, she scolded herself. It wasn't her place to daydream. An apartment with this footage, in this location? Way beyond her means. No, she'd aim lower and be happy to get out of the tenements.

The Hudson was slow-moving in the deepening night; she wished they'd been there an hour or two sooner so they could watch the sunset together. The water must've sparkled like the jewelry display cases at Bergdorf's. Would Graves like that sort of thing? Did he care about the view? There were so many windows, she couldn't imagine him buying the place without giving it a second thought.

She said as much, watching cars speed up and down Riverside Drive. Eight floors up, it was quiet, helped by walls that must've been a dozen feet thick; she couldn't hear a peep from any of the neighbors above, below, or on either side.

"The view is partly why I bought it, yes," he admitted with a reluctance she didn't understand. Who in New York didn't care about the view? And this one was great.

But at last she had her answer to why he'd been late. He'd probably closed on it that afternoon and got caught up dealing with the paperwork. There had to be a pile of things to sign for a place like this.

"I'm real happy for you." Her grin was entirely sincere when she turned back and found him some distance away, holding his hat in a loose grip and paying no attention at all to the view. "I gotta say though, you need furniture," she said, cheeks growing hot the longer he gazed at her so intently. "At least a couple of chairs or somethin'. A rug. Or a bed. You can't sleep on the bare floor, you know."

"I have no intention to," he said. The light played over his face strangely, made his bruises seem like artsy smears as he ambled forward, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping his hat against his thigh. "I... I thought I'd leave the furniture up to you."

"What?"

There was a jangle of keys, unmistakable even in the dark between them, as he pulled the set out of his pocket again. This time to hold out to her. "I didn't buy it for me, Queenie. I have an apartment, and I-" He shook his head once, briefly. "I have an apartment. I bought it for you."

The twin keys hung off the metal ring, swinging and tinkling softly like a couple of pendant earrings.

"What?" she whispered, grip tight on the window ledge behind her. He- This place had to have cost a fortune. The building was younger than her. How could- "You… you bought me an apartment?"

"You and your sister." He stepped closer, still holding the keys out. "The two of you shouldn't be living where you are. You both deserve something better. I owe you. I thought-"

She didn't wait to hear what he thought. Pushing his hand aside and dropping her handbag, she stepped forward, grabbed him by the jacket lapels, and kissed him. There was a soft _thump_ of his hat hitting the floor, closely followed by the louder rattle of keys, and then his hands were holding her face in place as he kissed her back.

There was no gradual easing into things; they picked up exactly where they'd left off. Not at Grand Central, where she'd been mindless with relief and would've been as happy to hold him as to kiss him, but at the Plaza, where things had been crackling and deliberate.

 _At least this time nobody's gonna walk in on us,_ she thought in the moment before she opened her mouth and said what was possibly the wrong thing to say.

"I don't need you to buy me an apartment." It came out weak and half-hearted as he kissed her jaw, backed her up steadily towards the window. "We- I was gonna talk to my sister about moving. Not here, but when I get a job-" A soft moan escaped her as he sucked a kiss into her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin, cologne a heady cloud. "Honey, I can't accept this," she said, even as she cupped his cheek, careful of his bruises. Intended to look him in the eye so he'd know she was serious, but when he licked his lip it was all she could do to guide his mouth back to hers.

The edge of the windowsill pressed against the back of her thighs; she pulled her mouth away from his, avoided his eyes. Tried again to say what she meant, though she plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat in the meantime. "I'm- I don't wanna be that kinda girl," she said, struggling to sound firm no matter how his hands had traveled to her sides, smoothing down over her silk dress to squeeze her hips, his quick fingers hitching up the fabric. "I really don't. Not with you. Not anymore."

"You're not. I never thought you were." He lifted her easily to sit on the ledge before the window, her legs spreading instinctively for him to stand between them as he dragged her dress further up. "I can't stand the thought of you living there," he said, forehead resting against hers as she got his vest open and pushed her hands underneath it to feel his firm chest beneath a layer of fine white cotton. It glowed in the growing darkness of the living room. His eyes glittered with reflected light as he stared into hers, serious as he'd ever been in spite of his hands sliding up and down her stocking-clad legs. "It keeps me up at night," he said harshly.

She'd just started loosening his necktie when he stuck two fingers in his mouth, sucking briefly, before he pushed his hand up her skirt, between her legs. Gasping, her head knocked back against the window as his spit-slick fingers found her clit.

"I worry about you," he said as he rubbed her clit, "all the time. I think about you all the time."

"D'you- Ah! Did you think about this?" she panted, jerking his shirt out of his pants, rocking forward to press against his hand. "Tell me."

"Yes." He brushed her hair aside as her shoulders pressed back against the window for support when he pushed one, then the other finger into her easily. "Yes. I shouldn't have. I promised you I wouldn't. That I didn't want this. That I wouldn't pay you for this. But, Queenie, I-"

She didn't want to hear the rest; hauling him in close to kiss him once more, she managed little more than to moan into his mouth as he worked her, his thumb pushing hard against her clit.

 _His shirt's gonna be a wrinkled mess by the time we're done,_ she thought, grabbing at it as he leaned over her.

"I-I want- Oh," she panted, knees drawing in tight against his sides as she began to shake. "I want-"

"What do you want?" He braced himself against the window with his free hand and trailed kisses over her hot face. "Whatever it is, you can have it," he said, fingers never slowing. "It's yours."

She squirmed under him, breathing sharp as she yanked at his shirt; a couple of buttons hit the floor with sharp _plink_ s and bounced away into the darkness. God, she was close. "I want you to fuck me," she said, biting her lip as he curled his fingers, pressed just so. It was good, but it wasn't enough. Her hand dropped from his shirt to his trousers, tugging at the button before giving up. "Please, Percival."

He pushed his face into her shoulder with a grunt as she rubbed him through his pants and moaned quietly. Then he stepped back.

Not for the first time, she wondered if she'd gone too far too fast as he pulled his fingers free and left her quivering on the ledge, bereft.

Then he licked his fingers clean before he shucked his jacket; his holster came off just as quickly, though he set it down on the floor a good deal more carefully. Too busy staring at the dark clump of leather and steel, she missed entirely the sight of him shrugging out of his waistcoat and suspenders. Not until there was a busy motion at waist-height did her attention snap back to him, and she wriggled forward off the ledge to land unsteadily on her feet.

"I ain't givin' Jersey a free show," she explained as he faltered with the fly of his pants.

"I'll buy you some curtains," he said, emotionless as he watched her finish what he'd started with her dress. Zipper down, up and off it came, and a good deal quicker than any of his clothes had; after unsnapping her garters, it was swiftly followed by her all-in-one girdle and slip.

"C'mere already," she said, blushing when he'd stood staring at her with wide-eyed admiration. She felt a little foolish leaving her stockings and shoes on, but time was of the essence. It took a hard tug at his necktie to get him moving again; he joined her on the floor without further cajoling, shifting close at the soonest opportunity. At least he'd gotten his pants open — she nearly patted him on the head and called him a good boy, but settled instead for pushing her hand in through the fly of his boxers, grinning when she felt his hard cock and he sucked in a breath. She didn't say anything else until at last she'd straddled him and the head of his cock nudged against her slick cunt, his hands sliding up the backs of her thighs to her ass before she slowly sank down on him.

 _Way better than two lousy fingers,_ a very loud and cheerful voice said in her mind as she sucked in a breath at the stretch. His hands continuously roamed up and down her body in long strokes as she adjusted — up over the edge of her stockings, her rear, her back, her shoulders, and then down again, trembling the whole while.

"We should've done this a lot sooner," she whispered to him very seriously, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as she had when they'd waltzed together. The light from the window caught on the silver in his hair; it was sleek and sweat-damp under her fingers as she stroked it back out of his face, full of tenderness at the sight of him smiling up at her unselfconsciously.

Then she rolled her hips against him; his smile was replaced by an open-mouthed groan, one she matched as she decided the hard wooden floor under her knees wasn't so bad after all. Who needed a bed?

 

"You meant it, didn't you," Graves said, one arm wrapped around her. "About not wanting the apartment."

Curled up next to him, petting his waist with as much energy as she could muster up in the muggy apartment, she said, "Yeah, I did. I mean everything I say." Her hand stilled. "Okay, almost everything."

"I know." A defeated sigh lifted her head where it lay on his bare shoulder. "I'm glad." He sounded anything but.

"I just…" Sitting up, her leg sliding back over his, she pulled his shirt up over her shoulder from where it had fallen, holding it closed with one hand. She liked it better than the mink stole. Sure, the sleeves were so long she'd had to roll them up, but it had other perks.

"I don't want this to be how we are anymore," she continued. "You buyin' everything, buyin' me this place…" She didn't bother giving the apartment or their pile of discarded clothing a second glance. There was only one thing she wanted to look at. "It ain't right, and it ain't what I want us to be." Biting her lip, she laid her palm against his warm chest. "I make my own decisions, and I don't want you thinkin' you have to pay me to keep me comin' around or that-"

"I don't mind," he whispered, eyelashes fluttering down as he covered her hand with his, holding it to his chest. "I never minded. I understand- No, I have an _idea_ how things have been for people after the crash. I'm the last person in the world who should be saying this, but it hasn't been easy for anyone. You would've been crazy to turn me down." Raising her hand, he brushed his lips across her knuckles in a feathery kiss before he locked eyes with her. "That was the plan."

"What, to lure me in with cold hard cash?" Her delivery fell flat; neither of them laughed. "I don't get you at all. Why couldn't you just do things the normal way? You don't need-"

"I do. Or I did. Thought I did." He pulled her hand close to his chest again, where she could feel his heart beating.

 _And less than a week ago I was sure he was dead,_ she marveled. Dropped her head back to his shoulder so he wouldn't see the tears that filled her eyes before she could blink them away. His voice, when he began to speak again in halting tones, was a rumble she felt throughout her entire body.

"I work a great deal; I always have. I have no family. I have no friends. I have no interest in society."

"And you _hate_ parties," she murmured, and his scoff stirred her hair.

"Yes, I did. For a long time, the most enjoyment I got out of them was turning down the invitations I knew were only extended to me because of my money." The arm he'd wrapped around her shifted; he swept her hair back without commenting on how she'd sweat out all her curls. "When my father died, I was relieved because it meant no one would ever… ever bother me again," he said in a very quiet voice.

She knew not to look up, though he squeezed her hand, and she knew not to ask what he meant by _bother_. Instead, she said, "And then Antoine had a stroke."

"And then Antoine had a stroke." His sighs were only becoming deeper. Sadder. "They found him in his office. I felt like Scrooge, witnessing my future. And yes, I do read when I can find the time," he said, then sobered. "Grindelwald wasn't the first to come after me, only the most successful. If not for you, I'm certain the ransom demand would've gone directly to the bank instead. Seraphina would've dealt with it competently enough, and if she'd failed she would have felt the same way anyone does when a difficult employee abruptly dies. Sad, but only because you have to replace them."

Queenie, brow furrowed, glared up at him. "No, she wouldn't've."

Peering down at her in equal confusion, Graves cocked his head. "I have a larger share than she does, yet I report directly to her. Trust me when I say she'd be happy to figure out a way to absorb my stocks, never mind resolve the conflict of interest." He kissed the top of her head and muttered, "Not everyone likes everyone else as much or as easily as you do. Not everyone would've handed over half a million dollars."

Frowning, she shoved away all thoughts of Graves going unmourned in favor of snuggling closer. She was careful about it — not every mark on his body was a lipstick stain. Many were bruises, and not of her making. "If you're trying to make yourself look unappealing, it's too late," she said, sounding childish and contrary. "I don't care that you're so suspicious."

"I only meant to explain my position. You did tell me to talk more." Releasing her hand, he nudged her chin with a knuckle. When she looked up at him, scowl still in place, his shoulders sank. "I didn't grow up with a loving sister or kind parents like you did. I grew up thinking my money was the most attractive thing about me. I thought for once I could use it to my advantage, and if someone — if _you_ — needed it, or enjoyed it, then what was the harm?"

The fact was there was nothing she could say to refute that, and it made her miserable. Particularly the second part. She _had_ liked it when he spent money on her, taking her out to dinner and buying her a dress and diamonds, giving her a glorified allowance. When she thought about it, had he used his money any differently from how she'd used her looks?

"I don't like you just 'cause of your money, doll," she said, wrapping her arm around his waist again and hugging him. "I like you for a whole bunch of other reasons; I have for ages. For starters, I like seeing your pretty face across the table from me," she added, kissing his jaw when he snorted. "And I-I'd keep seeing you even if you stopped paying me. Providing you _wanted_ to keep seeing me, that is." Despite how ready Graves was to caress her and kiss her, how obviously comfortable he was lounging half-naked in her arms, she wasn't entirely sure.

 _He said he_ did _hate parties,_ the practical part of her mind pointed out. _That means he used to. Past tense. And if he likes them now, it's gotta be because of you. Everything he's said has been about what he_ used to _think,_ used to _feel. How he_ used to _be alone._

"I really don't understand how you could ever think otherwise," he said, eyes shining in the faint light from the hall. "I suppose that's my fault for not figuring everything out sooner, such as how to broach the issue of money without insulting you."

"All it does is muddle everything up." Her voice wobbled with unspoken emotion and flimsy hope. "It almost ruined everything a hundred times already. I don't want things to be complicated between us anymore."

"I doubt that's possible," he said with his usual blunt honesty, dropping his hand from where he'd been playing with her hair to stroke down her shoulder, tug his shirt over her bare hip. "But I agree with the sentiment. I'm sure together we can come to a revised arrangement. One that doesn't revolve around money."

"And that doesn't involve you buyin' me apartments or jewelry or whatever without warning, okay?" Letting him go, she slid onto his lap and sat back on his thighs to look him straight in the eye, the wrinkled material of his boxers satiny against her sensitive skin. "No more payin' me off. And I wanna get a real job again. I'm not just gonna sit around at home, waiting on you to call. I wanna buy my own dresses and take _you_ out sometime, buster," she said, poking him in the chest. _I want my sister to be proud of me_ , she didn't say.

Some other time.

Resting his hands on her hips, he succeeded at fighting off the smile that threatened to curl the corners of his mouth. "No jewelry at all?" His only response to her gawking was an upward twitch of his eyebrows before he continued, "If you need help, I know a place that's hiring. They recently underwent some restructuring, and they could use someone experienced who's good at managing people." Pulling her forward by her borrowed shirt, he whispered to her, "I could vouch for how you excel at handling difficult cases."

Giggling as he kissed her chin, she sighed. "I guess that would be okay. But no setting things up without telling me! I don't want to walk in and find out I'm already hired without so much as a 'hi how are you.'"

"If you insist," he said with a roll of his eyes, head thumping back against the wall in over-dramatic defeat. "Am I at least allowed to treat you to a celebratory dinner when you _are_ hired?"

"Alright, deal." A grin settled on her face as he pulled her shirt open to drag his knuckles along the underside of her breast before he cupped it. "Are we havin' dinner tonight? I think we've got somethin' worth celebrating right here."

He nodded, smile fading as he slowly pinched her nipple, coaxing a whimper out of her. "Yes."

"What about breakfast?" she asked, worrying her lip and shrugging the shirt off as his free hand covered her other breast. "Are we gonna have breakfast for once?"

"That depends," he said, serious as ever in spite of how he was teasing her.

"You don't say." Breathing shaky, she arched into his touch, a bead of sweat rolling down her back. "On what?"

"On whether or not we ever get off this floor." His grin, when she laughed, was only a little bashful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remain surprised anyone besides myself and Jenny had any interest at all in what is, effectively, a story about an olde time-y Tinder meet-up. Though maybe it's more Seeking Arrangements. Thanks for reading.
> 
> Miscellaneous notes:
> 
> Roarke's is based on Delmonico's, down to the famous ribeye steak that I lifted from their menu. TWO heart cuts of ribeye tied together! The extravagance. No wonder Queenie felt faint.
> 
> All of the dresses Queenie tried on in chapter 2 can be found on Pinterest if you look hard enough. Her "meltdown" dress was a 1932 Chanel creation - I always pictured her as a Chanel girl if she could afford it.
> 
> Mutual American Company was based on the defunct Equitable Trust Company. The line about Graves not being a Rockefeller.... John Jr. had a 10% share in ETC before it merged with Chase National, at which point it was reduced to 4%. So maybe Queenie was wrong about that comparison. But really it was all an excuse for me to make an elaborate MACUSA joke.
> 
> The apartment is a composite of two floor plans in The Clarendon, which is on Riverside and 86th. It really does have a lovely view.
> 
> The [Inflation Calculator](https://www.dollartimes.com/calculators/inflation.htm) is probably the most useful tool I ever came across while writing Fancy Beasts fic, and easily the thing I consulted the most next to the HP Wikia.
> 
> Speaking of which, nearly every character (with a handful of exceptions) has been repurposed from the film. Did you spot Newt?
> 
> Finally, though it has little in common with this fic, the book _The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl_ by Timothy Egan was invaluable in understanding the emotions of common Americans during the Great Depression. I can't recommend it highly enough.


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